D&D is For Nerds

Over a year ago, an argument outside the old bone grinder. Two voices. One coaxing the other. Soothing assurance that whatever they might find inside will be no match for the two of them. It’ll be fine Paul, it’s only hags. The other voice, less sure, less certain, providing a laundry list of reasons they should probably turn around. The first voice lower now, more gentle. Trust me, I’ve got you. The second voice acquiesces.

Inside, the pungent odour of rot and the throaty chirruping of an enormous toad. A collection of rags and bones coalesces into the floating form of a wretched old woman. Her voice like shattered glass. You’re fucking dead you rat cunts! Fuck you! The sizzling sound of magical energy. Run! The first voice, panicked and self serving. It’s got me, I’m trapped. The second voice, fearful and strained. The first voice does not respond. Pip? The second voice pleads. Pip.

But he is gone.

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There is no formal name given to worship of the One Above and the One Below. It is a strange religion and one not well known outside of the small pockets of the multiverse where people practise it. Those who believe see themselves as part of a grander cosmic food chain with the One Below being the source of their power. They feed on one One Below to power their minds and bodies and souls and spells. In this way the One Below is seen as a creator god, a fertility god, or a god of harvest depending on the context. The One Below is conceptualized as different entities depending on the context such as a worm, a deer, or a chicken. Adherents then see the One Above as feeding upon them when they die to fuel its own power; the One Above acting as a god of judgement, true death, or even renewal. While similarly to the One Below there is no definitive depiction of the One Above by far the most common form is a giant bird. This is observed through works made by the Grung people who are the most prevalent, but certainly not the only, adherents to the faith. Common death rites involve exposing the corpse to the elements and scavengers so that the soul can pass seamlessly up the cosmic food chain.

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I had no ambition to be remembered. All I knew is that I wanted a desk eventually. Somewhere dry and quiet. A place where my boots didn't end the day caked in mud and dirt. I did not care for the frontline. I did not care for battle. I did not care that my wife always worried whenever I went on a campaign. I was not, and will never be, what you'd call a hero. Someone history bent around. That was for other people. To happen elsewhere, while I stayed comfortable at its edges. I was happy with that arraignment.

He arrived unannounced, in the middle of the night, from somewhere I still don't fully understand. He was forthright with any questions I had. A deeply honest man. There were rumours about the man responsible for making all of what we do possible, the majority of which I didn't understand. What I did understand, however, was that the man across from me, looking at drilling contracts and charters of accounts didn't understand any of it. But unlike most men of consequence I've dealt with, he was honest about that. In the end he said he'd rather be honestly ignorant in front of one man than dishonestly confident in front of a hundred, and would I be that man.

He has had many names and titles throughout history, both his own and mine. Some flattering. Some true to the man I knew. Others I still can't reconcile with him at all, atrocities I have no answer for and have stopped trying to find one. But before he was anything to anyone, he was a stranger asking me to be as honest with him as he was with me. For that I will always respect him and I will always call him a friend.

- From the memoirs of Lord Warden Forsyth of the Sand Marches

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An army marches on its stomach. Please do not take this literally. As impressive as it may look, a thousand men flopping, rolling and laughing in the mud is neither intimidating or practical. What I am talking about is, very simply, food.
Every quartermaster knows the phrase "send a druid before the cart and the army eats before it starts". Yet seldom do they know the second part of the phrase: "but slight her once, and mark it well, the forest keeps its own farewell". To put it bluntly, be nice to your druid and she'll be nice to you.
This is harder than it sounds, as druids are, quite frankly, miserable countrymen. A druid does not march in formation, screams at most steel weaponry and will stop the whole host because a hedge "seemed unhappy about something." A druid will let a man go hungry on principle before she lets him shoot a doe that hasn't finished raising her fawns. She she will not apologise and she will remember exactly which soldier complained the loudest. Men who have survived three sieges without flinching will cross an entire camp to avoid a druid's disappointed silence. It is, by every account I've collected, deeply unpleasant to be quietly out-ranked in a moral argument by someone holding a badger and has sunflowers in their hair.

None of this matters however, as in the end it is a matter of arithmetic.

To feed 50 men for one week without a druid, you will need:
* 3 supply wagons
* 6 oxen to pull them, and feed for the oxen
* 2 armed escorts per wagon, minimum, against bandits, wolves and goblins. Especially goblins.
* 1 forager scout, who will get lost so best make it 2 forager scouts
* Standing goodwill (or standing coin) with whichever village you're passing
* A contingency plan for when the village has, quite reasonably, hidden its grain
* An extra crate of soft-leather shoes you can boil for "shoe soup"

To feed 50 men for one week with a druid, you will need:
* A druid
* Several unruly horses you hate (to feed said druid)

I once witnessed a single druid consume eleven horses over the span of a six week campaign. She never once touched the venison, the rabbit or the fish she herself had summoned to shallow water out of what I can only assume was professional courtesy to the fish. Only the horses. By the third horse I finally asked her why. She considered the question with the seriousness of a woman being asked to explain colour to someone born without eyes. She said that she liked them. Not the meat. Them. For the better part of a decade I have not stopped thinking about her answer and I am no closer to understanding it.
In my youth, I naïvely thought it was only this particular druid that had a penchant for horse meat. Let me tell you dear reader, I had never been so wrong in my entire life.

- On the Matter of the Marching Stomach, and Other Inconveniences of War by Quartermaster-General Ordo Bramblehoof

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There's a saying in ol' North Warlocksburg: "Still water runs deep, and deep water runs wise, and wise water knows better than to answer questions it wasn't asked." Nobody can tell you what that means. Yet it gets recited at weddings, funerals, and most minor irrigation disputes. Usually with a solemn head nod for emphasis.
It's also, if you ask around, the reason our little town turns out so many wizards. Why a farmer's boy from North Warlocksburg is more likely to end up hurling fireballs than herding sheep. Why every child is taught how to dispel magic before they can take their first steps.
Now come sit down by the fire. Let me tell you a story. A story you may have heard before, and you may be right, but trust me when I say my version is the correct version. You see, I was there.
Long ago, long before anyone here was ever born, an evil wizard lived here. Some say his name was Balthazor the Cruel, others claim it was Galbatorixium the Flaccid. Neither are correct. It was Steve. Steve the Red.
One day, after a fruitful day of kicking dogs and cursing crops, the villagers had had enough and chased poor Steve through the square with pitchforks. Steve, you have to understand, while no one could kick a dog better than he, was truly awful sprinter. Especially when it came to hurdles. I never met a hurdle that Steve wouldn't just plow straight through and donk his head. You might have noticed those blue ribbons adorning my cabin walls, and you'd be correct. I did in fact steal them from the village's number 1 runner. He begged and begged and begged for me to give them back, but by then they were rightfully mine and no one was around to disprove him. So i just laughed and laughed in his stupid ugly good at running face. Got myself a lot of strange from those ribbons alone. You can have them when I pass. You look like you could use with the ribbon help. Now where was I? Steve? Right. Dogshit at running, tripped and fell straight into the town well. Never to be seen again. Neither was his hat, which personally I think was the real tragedy.
That night, so the story goes, his dark magic seed seeped into the water, all at once, forever and ever. Everyone who drank from that well was touched by it. As was their children and their children's children all the way down, right to this very day. That's why they call it Wiz Water. And that's why when we drink, we drink deep in ol' North Warlockburg. Now raise your glass and take a sip, to the wizard below and the wizard to come.

- Printed on every single bottle of Wiz Water sold by Warlockburg's Brewery

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