I Hate Orcs

Dear Journal,

It's been a long time since I've bothered to write anything in here, but that's probably because no one is ever going to read this. Which brings up the point of why I bother to write in this dusty leather bound book in the first place. Samura says it's a way of destressing when I'm out of coffee, tea, and/or cigarettes. What the hell does she know, though. I write stuff down in here because I feel like it… occasionally.

So, long story short, we're bankrupt (again). After another bungled bank job (I blame the weasel), we decided to revert to the cliched age-old tactic of making money: killing and stealing dead people's treasure. We heard of a distress message sent out from some hole in the ground up in the north, and a little birdie told us that there was an ancient lamp and treasure to be found. An adventuring company had already made way north, but sent out a message for help which was received by a travelling group of prats that called themselves "Lance and the Spearmints." Or something. I'm a little foggy on the details since we killed them before they could matter.

Either way, with them dead, we proceeded to the shithole in the north. I swear to you, journal, that this place made Almernae look like fucking Rozarria. Yes, it was that bad. I'm not even exaggerating when I say it's a hole in the ground. It is literally a hole in the ground.

Ahem, my apologies, I got sidetracked there.

So we get to the city, blah blah blah. Decide what we're going to do, blah blah blah. Then, we get shot at by some dickhandling sniper on the water tower. Naturally, I get shot at first. We were flagged down by a scrawny looking git in a shack and told to take cover. Dodging the sniper's fire, we took refuge in the man's shack who introduced himself as Ruykir Grum. Apparently he was one of the adventuring company who had been pinned down by this one sniper.

Now, if there's one thing I can't stand, it's incompetence. And apparently, neither can Samura, because she shot the bloke in the knee and then threw him outside for sniper fodder. Good thinking too, because it gave us the chance we needed to sneak over to the water tower. There, we encountered our sniper foe. It was an orc.

Since when do ORCS know how to use guns? Either way, we killed him, strung him up from the water tower, and then through the use of a magic stone made contact with the rest of the adventuring party. Oh, and Samura had to finish off Ruykir before he could blab. Sucker.

The rest of the adventuring party moved to join us at the water tower. Among them was their leader, Vogar Brimstone, a prat with flowing blonde hair and a cape. Ugh… even the memory has me gagging and vomiting at the same time. Dear Iomedae, I'm gavomiting.


With him was this dwarf, Holvic Ironbeard, a twatty wizard named Suki Starfall, and a guide of theirs. I really don't care about him, so I forgot his name. Funny how I do that. After introductions were made (we of course were operating as the "Three Spearmints" or whatever their name was), we decided to split up. Vogar and his party would start to investigate the mines while Anya and I would search the barracks. Samura would stay behind and cover us from the water tower. I'm loathe to admit it, but I'm grateful she did, otherwise I'd be dead. Inside the barracks we were met with a rather hefty group of orcs who, after much fighting, managed to knock both Anya and myself out. It was only Samura's eye that kept us alive.

After we were resuscitated, Anya searched further into the barracks while I had a cup of tea. Further in, she found a man, bound to a chair, and looking rather nervous. The entire barracks were unstable and the particular area they were in was precariously balanced over a pit. Anya moved in to untie him when one of the walls fell away and another group of orcs rushed into the room.

Purely out of self-preservation, I slammed the door shut, and was met with the sound of that section of the barracks falling into the pit, taking Anya with it.

With Samura's gun pointed to my head, we left for the mines to recover our "comrade."

Orcs. Ugh.

Dr. Leonard Crowley

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