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

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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

The Pest Beneath the Pews

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square,

Inkly Tolew the Third Esq.

Manager, Operator, Owner 

Wormwood Valley Information Operations Publication    

 

Sir St. Claws of the North

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square,

Inkly Tolew the Third Esq.

Manager, Operator, Owner 

Wormwood Valley Information Operations Publication