The Tales of Imogen: Part 67

It’s only been a few days but I have gotten used to waking up to the pretty boy’s music. Waking up to claw marks adorning my skin, the smell of decomposing ogre flesh and a headache only rivaled by the morning after I attempted to share drink among some half-giants and their native brew near the Strathmoor Pass…it’s real shite is what it is.

I’m starting to wonder how any of us survived on our own before this venture. I mean, by the spirits, I’m better than this. I shouldn’t have been taken down by a group of smelly, dead, Vikings. I guess I was lucky to have the little paw with me. We’ve barely talked and he looks at Flick funny. But he still brought me back from those dumb old Ysgard rejects. I suppose it’s just a part of who he is. Him and his Kosticky worship.

We’re running out of time. Some of these folks are going to turn if we don’t get back in time. They’ve helped me and each other so far but I won’t hesitate to lock an arrow right between their moldy little eyes the second it happens. I’ll admit, it will be harder to do that to some than others….

I still don’t know what the correct course of action is with Happy Sunshine, or Silly Rainbow or Baby Pixie. No, he’s more like a Little Hey-I’m-Gunna-Kill-You-All-With-Rampant-Fey-Magic. Yeah that. For now, we need him if we are to succeed. Ugh.

These miners need us. Only 10 live of the 24 who went missing. I won’t let any more families in Einstock lose a father, or a brother, or whoever they were to anyone. They are the ones who matter. The people who are just trying to live. Not these petty political problems. Someone needs to fight for these people while the Jarl struggles to keep his land…oh boy. I need to rest more. I’m starting to get all hot and opinionated again. Just keep mocking ogres, Imogen, that’ll keep ya grounded.

Whoever this fey bitch is who thinking she can just cry and take these miners so she can do her fungal alchemy shit, has an another thing coming. And that thing is three star stuff arrows going straight into her cold, moldy, fey heart. So things I guess. Because there is three and not one. Yeah I need to rest. Maybe I can convince mister pretty to play something quietly to make it easier.


“Who are you?”
“Tax Collectors!”

That was good.

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