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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you.


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

Who is Inkley Tolew III Esquire?

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

AndygdaneE: Wow. Not sure how to respond.

Alfred Cummings: I wish I knew.

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

Daggerbreath: Doubtful. He hates bad drivers.

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

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

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

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

Marriage Biting in Borneo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square,

Inkley Tolew III Esq.

Exploring Editor in Charge

Wormwood Daily

Burny McTavish and the Wormwood Gnomish Curse

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

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

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

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

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

From deep below Wormwood Square,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Adventure, and Giant Wormwood Mountain Leeches...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Writing from deep below Wormwood Square,

Inkley Tolew III Esq.

Wormwood Daily

The Lost Treasure of Matacoombe'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square

Inkey Tolew III Esq.

Commanding Editor in Charge

Wormwood Daily

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...

http://twitter.com/WormwoodValley

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