We were on our way to Halveti.

The annual carnival was just the place for the three of us to find
more coins in our purses and perhaps warm women on our arms. Stelleri, Rufus, and I the ever
present made up our rather careworn company of Out of Sorts men. There was no great hopes
that things would be wine and roses when we arrived there. We never pinned high hopes on
anything, too often we had been pricked by such pins...or we had been pricks.

Truth be told, it had been rough the last few months. Stelleri had been between jobs, meaning he
had written enough ditties to anger the locals and so no work was coming his way, Rufus had
refused to perform instead scraped by teaching idiotic youth how to make stick figures, and
I...well let us say that hauling barrels of ale is far less wonderful than drinking the contents of
said barrels. Safe to say, we needed change and the road beckoned to us.

We were lucky. Though I am the only one who regularly wields a truncheon, there was a wagon
heading to Halveti that needed protection. Stelleri looked menacing with his raggedy beard and
ever present scowl, Rufus hid his paintbrushes and pretended to know how to hold a staff, and I
negotiated. We would be fed and paid a modest sum when we arrived safe..not the greatest, not
the worst contract. Still it meant that Valleyaire was behind us and our luck could turn.

Lest you think that perhaps I am embellishing, let it be known that I took charge here because
this was my area of expertise. Had it been some sort of writing job Stelleri would be the one to
negotiate, and had it involved a large mural Rufus would wield the paintbrush of command.
Still, given their natures and proclivities, I was glad that this time I could be the one to make sure
we arrived at the very least in one piece.

We have walked miles before, very often in another's shoes (though faster at those times as the
barefooted victim would undoubtedly be chasing us). We took to the road in a short time.
Looking menacing is a skill we had all perfected, and that is most of what it takes to be safe on
the paths of the backwater we traveled. Besides this, to any real dyed in the wool bandits (here,
meaning Northmen with blue body paint) I must confess we looked like a ragamuffin band of
itinerant beggars.

Our hosts were two halflings. While this was a bit unusual, it was not too strange to attract that
much notice. Their wagon was a monstrosity, a flat section with a suspended pot, under which a
plate of glowing coals were kept. Behind this was a small covered area that they called home.
Inside the pot was the source of our meals each day, and this stew of many days had new
ingredients added each morn and consumed throughout the day, never even coming close to the
middle. For such a careworn group as we this was heaven indeed.

A sort of heaven. Halflings are halflings, and while they had a sound plan on providing
inexpensive food at the festival, they operated on optimism and good faith. They assumed that
most anyone met was a decent sort, and it took all of ten minutes before they accepted me and
my two companions as the finest sorts. In reality, though we three actually did mean no harm to
them, it in fact took my own mother several years before she felt I might be worth not drowning.
Such is the world.
North we traveled, through farmland and cared for lands, then into more wild country. This was
in between land, probably owned on some rolls or in a herald's books somewhere, but largely
uninhabited and not cared for. We were perhaps a dozen days on the journey with a ten-day
more to go when we had our first run in with trouble.

It was the stewpot. By now it had boiled a savory mix of lamb and beef, peas and flour, roots of
every kind, and the spices that the two halflings (who by know we learned were brothers called
Tubbs and Hawthorne) had mixed and bubbled into something not only indescribably delicious,
but of such olfactory potency that any hungry person for three miles either side of the wheel
tracks could smell and desire.

Bandits are a surly lot. Too often they do not plan and when they have times of plenty they
make sure to gorge and devour their gains in as short a time as possible. This leads, invariably,
to them returning to the path of least resistance and once again relieving persons of their hard
earned gains. It seemed that the countryside we were passing through was filled with hungry,
greedy, and ill-informed bandits. In the woods of Allirth, perhaps once the lands of some elven
king but now just overgrown brush, such a group made to waylay us.

It was a man, perhaps once burly but now rather swimming in overgrown clothing, who stepped
out into the road perhaps 10 paces in front of us.

"Halt and pay the toll!" he intoned.

Stelleri was the first to call out, perhaps he had rehearsed this, "Pray tell, oh smudged collector,
what toll is levied on this road?"

This took the fellow aback. To hazard a guess in everyday time he was not the type to think
much, so he turned to the bushes to his left for guidance... incidentally letting us know where his
compatriots were. Some hurried and hushed debating commenced, and we stopped the wagon
and loosened our means of resistance.

Eventually the herald turned to us again. "Just pay us some damn money or give us stew!"

I took this as my cue; I was bored and this looked to be mildly entertaining. Whistling I moved
forward toward him with empty hands. This also unnerved him, he didn't expect a visitor.
Apparently this was a crew that had not really planned for contingencies. We, however, had
already met most varied events in our years of travel, the seemingly random contingencies were
all memorized by heart now, and we were ready.

"Look, friend, we don't have any money, and that stuff bubbling in the pot is not ours" I calmly
said as I walked toward him with as large of strides as I could muster. "We are just hired help,
and we don't have two coins to rub together." (Technically this was true, as all our funds were
sewn into Rufus's money belt and could not touch one another unless it was cut into a dozen
pieces).
He seemed confused even more, and when a few more glances toward his backups yielded
nothing he gave in to an exasperated sigh. Clearly this hold up was not going to plan and we did
not know how to act properly scared. The smooth operation of every endeavor involves all the
participants knowing their roles, clearly we were at fault here. It would get worse for them as
well...

The fellow let me get to within a few feet of him, his second mistake. His third mistake was his
not trying to dodge or block my fist when I swung toward his temple. The only thing he did
right in the whole encounter was to collapse and go unconscious or at least feign doing so quite
well. Oh, his first mistake? That was holding up a wagon carting stew being guarded by three
stout fellows with an appetite in the first place.

Stelleri and Rufus were at my side in a moment, but there was no problem. The sounds from the
bushes indicated that the backup for our toll collector were fleeing toward their camp. Likely
such a place was dirty with bad water and all the other amenities that bandits call home. They
could stay there for all we cared. Looking back toward Tubbs (or was it Hawthorne?) we waved
the wagon forward an on to our next troubling encounter.

And that was the truth. It was that damned stew. Rufus said it was because of the savory nature
as he helped himself to seconds. Stelleri claimed it had been imbued with the magics that a low-
level conjurer (or perhaps a high grade stew-chef) could muster. As for me, I just assumed that it
smelled good enough to goad people into doing stupid things. The gods know that lunch and
supper were well appreciated, and our trenchers were well sodden and enjoyed at the end of each
meal. The handful of oats boiled up each morning was a sad thing in comparison.

I was sleeping on the wagon when a more organized attempt at the stew was made. Stelleri was
on lookout as we watered the horse for mid-day camp and Rufus was probably either sketching a
scene for his notebook or in deep conversation about rutabagas with the halflings. In any case
four toughs, better marshaled than the last bunch, burst into the clearing and shouted that
everyone lay down their arms or we would all be killed.

Stelleri does not carry weapons, for the most part. He claims that makes him a target, often said
with pointed glances at my cudgel and knives. When his knee acts up he makes use of a walking
stick, but beyond that he looks like a bearded grouchy man who will likely give one poor marks
for grammar. I opened my eye in time to see him act, in his own way.

"Mejahamathuts!" he said, or something to that effect. Instantly the vines and grasses in this part
of the forest began to shimmer and move, not just swaying as in a breeze, but move and grow
across the forest floor. Pretending that this outburst was just a sneeze (and if you have ever
heard him actually sneeze that would be spot on), he looked toward the attackers with a
befuddled look of innocence.

"But I have no weapon, good sirs. I suppose I could go fetch one and then lay it down if that
would make you feel better." If bandits don't like forthright questions, they hate polite naïveté
even more. Playing up his limp he began to turn toward the wagon to complete his notion. The
bandits, boggling again at the unexpected, waited a couple of seconds before yelling at him to
stop and stand still.

Now both of my eyes were open, but the brim of my cap was over my face so I assume it looked
as if I were still dozing. This was the perfect vantage point for me to watch what happened. The
vines and grasses in the few seconds had grown and entwined about the feet of the bandits, and
they were distracted enough that they did not notice. I guessed it would be hard for them to
move. Too bad none of them had any weapon longer than a club.

Stelleri had done a wonderful job, and the wagon bed was comfortable. I really did not want to
rise to see to this trouble, so I continued to feign sleep and watch in case I might be needed. I
didn't think I would. He glanced down quickly and the smile that broke out on his face was
terrible to behold.

Normally Stelleri only smiles when he is about to explain to someone how dumb the actually are.
While the three of us all enjoy such an activity, for Stelleri it is an art form that he has perfected
and indeed reveled in. Now he was grinning like a teacher handing back end of term essays that
he knew had more of his own red ink in them than scrawled words of students. I think I gave an
involuntary shudder.

At this moment, perhaps fates here intervened, Rufus came out of wagon and made toward the
stewpot armed with a wooden bowl and a hunger that could strip a chicken of feathers in less
than a minute. Before he reached the object of his desire he stopped to take in the scene.

Looking long and hard at the confrontation, and being wise enough to not linger on the grin of
our mad grammarian's face, he grabbed the ladle and spooned himself a nice helping of the stew.
Today it was adorned with floating biscuits which if not all eaten would thicken the elixir for
tomorrow.

Blowing slowly on his bowl of steaming mana, Rufus said with a deadpan smile, "free stew for
anyone who walks up here."

Normally of our triumvirate, Rufus is the one closest to having a conscience. Me, I am the
closest most times to being unconscious, and Stelleri just likes to sit back and grumble at
everyone equally. Now, however, Rufus seemed to take positive delight at the struggles of the
bandits as they tried to move, their feet encased in the forest greenery that had moved to entangle
them.

The breeze took at turn at that moment, and the aroma of perhaps the finest stew in the world
moved full force toward the struggling men. It would have been almost sad to watch had I not
known they were out to relieve us of our worldly possession, and quite likely our lives mere
moments before.

"Show no mercy, " my Gram used to say. That was often before putting the boot into the
kidneys of some tough who had tried to rob her and been knocked down by her purse filled with
lead weights. Now we all took her advice and moved off slowly as the mixture of pain and
desire never left the faces of any of the would be highwaymen.

I swear Rufus, contrary to his nature, actually let a few spills of stew hit the ground just out of
reach of one of the men.

When I let out a yawn a few seconds later, Stelleri gave me a quizzical look and that infamous
raised eyebrow. "You had it under control," I said and accepted my bowl of stew from Rufus.

The gods must get bored with people. They live out their days able to see the doings of folks,
most of which are dull and depressing. While no theologian, I have come up with the notion that
to liven up their existence they play around with the fates and make the lives of people more
interesting for their benefit. Sort of like the rich merchants who sponsor theatrical works, but
with more blood and sex.

As we worked our way north, then bending to the east around the Sommier Bay, it became
apparent that we were on a comedic deathmarch for the enjoyment of some celestial onlookers.
In the small towns we were followed by packs of hungry locals, often they had even bathed and
slicked down their hair as they approached to purchase stew. Tubbs (or was it Hawthorne?)
loved the showmanship and the coins of selling so the trip slowed down more.

And it got more dangerous. For us, these small hamlets were a nightmare. The three of us knew
we were not locals, and thus fair game. Nights were the worst, as hamfisted famers came to
ladel out "just one more taste" from the pot. Eventually there were larger groups, often fortified
with whatever beer they brewed here, ready to rush the pot and take it all. Several times all three
of us had to crack heads.

But it was the rather hasty return to the road after the incident with the three floozies, the extra
large bowl, and the celery salt that really set things to motion. We knew we were wanted men, if
our hosts didn't realize it, and we knew we would be lucky to make it to our destination intact
since we had taken on the task of defending the world's greatest stew.

It was ogres. Big, dumb, ogres that ended up being the worst of it. Normally ogres, while being
eight foot tall masses of muscle and protective bone that are potentially troublesome, are not
usually a great menace given the fact that said protective bone takes the place of trifling details
like brains or manual dexterity. Ogres can be fooled by pointing and yelling "Look out behind
you!" and they cannot seem to plan.

But the magic of the stew overcame their limitations, it seemed. The aromas awoke in them a
cunning never seen before, and a planning depth that rivaled at least a wombat. In short, they
were far more dangerous, and hungry, then any group of ogres had a right to be. They likely
spotted us some time before the trouble started, then ran ahead so they could ambush us.
First of all, they tried a trap. It had been quiet in the forest for an hour. This means that
something has either eaten all the animals for a goodly radius, or frightened them into
submission. Given what we faced I will assume it was a little from either choice. They trap was
cunning, by ogre standards – a rope across the road to stop the cart and pits beside to trap anyone
trying to dismount.

Luckily for us they were not good at disguising their efforts. The pits were covered in bits of
tree, broken off about mid-trunk, and likely this pile of foliage was sturdy enough to walk on for
anyone less bulky than an ogre. The rope was indeed between two trees, but they had not figured
out a means to make it taut, so it rather pathetically snaked across the road quite limply. Still, if
nothing else this should have given us pause – clearly we were dealing with near savant like
minds of the ogre world.

As we rolled up to the site of the ambush, Tubbs (or was it Hawthorne?) slowed the wagon down
to negotiate the hazards. Rufus and I jumped to the ground, me not so much on the ground and
on the trunk of a rather sizable pine that had been felled to "cover the pits" as it were. We both
knew that anything so strong, yet so stupid as to go through all this work would mean trouble.

Still, we were met not with attack but rather with the sounds of at least three large persons
running off through the forest in the general direction that we traveled to. Rufus later admitted
he heard at least one "I tol' you that wouldn't work!" and the sounds of muffled blows (perhaps as
administered by the hat of something large striking another large person).

That should have been a warning, and indeed it would have been to a group that did not include
three dueling egos such as us. Instead that fuelled our own confidence that that worst was
beyond us and all we needed to do was cross the last few miles to reach the end of our journey
and the waiting arms of all the maidens who would want to hear about how wonderful we
actually are. I believe I said something along those lines to Stelleri.

It was when we passed between two low hills that the master plan of the ogres took shape.
Perhaps 3 hours after their attempt at pit traps, after we had nourished ourselves with large
congratulatory helpings of stew ladled out by Rufus, the road narrowed and the going began to
get tough.

There were berms, freshly dug, on either side of the road. Some dull minds, large muscles, and
the promise of stolen stew had fuelled the ogres into feats of manual labor that was rather
impressive. The road squeezed down, and the resulting pits in the land to either side funneled
the wagon into a slow and tortuous path.

Perhaps they meant something more elaborate, there were ropes in the trees with knot work that
had been abandoned. Several looked suspiciously like lassos or over-sized rabbit nooses meant
to catch the wagon, also there was the half-built tollhouse that one of them tried to make in order
to stop the wagon. As I said, we were dealing with no average ogres here, such genius should
have made us tremble. Still, they hadn't had enough time to really plan, and instead returned to
their instincts.
Now instinct for an ogre is one of three things: fighting in a mad bull-like way, eating whatever
they can cram down their gullet, and very intricate mating rituals carried out by incredibly slow
and stupid (yet in this one area of interaction, shy) brutes and their lady brutes. When in doubt,
kill, eat, and blush.

So our three ogres charged from over the berms. They had hidden themselves in holes covered
in old mud soaked rags...or perhaps that was their clothes. Two from one side, one from the
other, yelling and grunting out words that to them promised a feast once the pot was theirs.
Knowing ogres, at least one imagined the defenders of the cart bubbling in the pot as well to
make the meal complete.

Tubbs (or was it Hawthorne?) screamed and seemed to fall into a fit of madness, twitching and
gibbering. Stelleri turned and began to see if he could render aid, along with the stricken
halfling's brother.

Rufus and I suddenly were distracted by the ogre to the left who reached the wagon first.
Distracted is not the right word, scared to the point of empty bowels would be better said, since
an eight foot tall, food-crazed wall of bellowing muscle intent on mashing us into jelly with his
massive club did not induce a sense of bravado in either of us.

That was what the other ogres waited for, all of us were distracted. Their plan suddenly came to
fruition when the pair ran to the wagon and grabbed the stewpot. One even had makeshift oven
mitts on fashioned from a bedroll, the other ran along holding his side bellowing "Hot! Hot!
Hot!" but not relinquishing his grip.

This was the moment of danger, that second everything crystallized, the instant of change. The
ogre facing Rufus and I looked over at the theft and was distracted, this allowed me to crack him
several times on the skull in strategic places with my sturdy cudgel. The reason I could reach
various pressure points was that Rufus had obligingly kicked him in the stones with his sturdy
traveling boots and the surprised ogre bent over a tad.

At the wagon, the stricken halfling instantly recovered with the theft of his sacred object, and he
screamed "Save the stew!" a rallying cry that inspired us all. Stelleri turned, sized up the scene,
and began to incant some horrible spell designed to not only save the culinary day, but also to
impart such pain and retribution on the ogres that they give up their thieving ways and turn
toward charitable pastimes hence.

But it was Tubbs (or was it Hawthorne?) who acted first. In true halfling fashion he grabbed a
rock and threw it with the accuracy that one of this small folk have innate. Unerringly guided
toward the stew-filchers, imbued with the fury that only someone who sees their life's work
being stolen, the rock began to glow (I swear to this on Stelleri's grave, wherever that may end
up being) as it headed toward its target.

Halflings are gentle folk, for the most part, saving their anger behind walls of politeness and
gentility. It was rare that displays of rage are seen, but we saw one this day. No, not the throw
itself, because though imbued with some sort of revenge magic that when it struck the ogre with
the oven mitts he was knocked out cold, it was the aftermath that showed us a glimpse of halfling
rage that we had never before experienced.

For the lone ogre with the burning hands could no longer hold the stewpot, and he let it go.
Rufus and I, just turning to lend aid surely had looks of horror on our faces when the huge metal
container began to drop. Stelleri was so shocked that his incantation misfired and a quarter of a
mile off some farmer's barn turned into a rather large and disgruntled hamster. We were
gobstopped and stricken.

But not so much as the halfling who had thrown the stone. His brother had risen from his
sickbed and was now beating on him screaming "NOT THE STEWPOT YOU MORON!"

In the end, it was not so bad as a total loss. Perhaps a third of the precious stew was lost, but the
pot had landed canted in the softer earth of the ogre-berm. Through judicious use of a winch, a
blanket, and swearing the now lighter pot was raised back on its platform. Only then could we
again make our way with two trussed-up ogres in tow.

The fair was everything we dreamed it would be. Their stew, now refortified with fresh
ingredients actually emerged by the end of the activities better than before. I am sure they made
a mint there, but we did not stick around to see. They asked us if we wanted a renewal of our
contract, but despite the lure of the food, the danger it represented was too much for three simple
men such as we. Some magic is too potent to be benevolent.

Still, not all was a loss. Our wages, a gratuity, and the reward for the ogres meant that for the
next few weeks at least the three of us could live as we imagined we were accustomed to. Rufus
began to paint, this time the various barmaids made willing and anatomically sound models for
him. Stelleri buried his nose in a large tome, taking time off to teach some fair lass the
intricacies of grammar when nude. And I? Well, let's just say that I hate to drink alone, but two
drinking in a tent at the fair proved a perfect time.

We still had enough left over to invest in some trinkets to eventually haul back to Valleyaire...but
that is a different tale.