Pepsi's Tale, Session One

Greetings, dear reader.

First of all, I have a request to make of you: do not tell any of my companions about this journal! They do not know that I have studied BoingBoing’s Spell of Journal Writing. I am but a halfling rogue; I fear my wizard and warlock associates would take offense at my uneducated use of magic, and as I need an honest outlet for my opinions, I fear the others would take offense at the contents.

But let’s not get too hasty.

My name is Pepsi. An unusual name for a halfling, I suppose, but I’ve found that having an unusual name makes one more memorable (as if my admittedly dashing looks weren’t enough). Some things have … happened to me in the past, as it were, so I get some odd looks. In an attempt to rebuild a normal life for myself, I’ve settled in town and set up shop.

And business has picked up today! A dwarven warrior entered my shop in search of supplies. I egregiously overcharged him, considering how much it cost to put together. Ah, petty larceny! How you remind me of the good old days!

And then business was dead. I locked up shop and wandered over to the bar. A massive brawl was taking place between a group of strangers and the sheriff, who I know from past experience to be extraordinarily belligerent when drunk. Before I could do anything to intervene (and thus impress any ladies who happened to be inside, and also curry some favour with the wench), the interlopers were easily incapacitated and sent to jail.

Then something peculiar happened. A warlock named Aeos (the warlock companion, actually) required guards to escort him to the keep, a few days’ walk away. Those strangers thrown in jail were instantly pressed into service. To my surprize I noticed the customer from earlier in the day!

Now, we halflings have many admirable qualities. We’re brave and affable people, blessed by Avandra with unusual luck. Most of us are more than pleasant to look at, and we bring the best stories and songs to any social engagement.

However, possibly our best quality is curiosity. And this gave me much to be curious about, such as why was the sheriff aiding a warlock? We all know they gain their powers by conferring with demons. And if he was making a delivery to the king, then why was he getting his guards from the drunk tank?

Now me, I’m a rogue and a shopkeeper. On the face of them, the roles are diametrically opposed, but there is one clear unifier: money. And the wages sounded awfully good to me.

So I relatively nonchalantly offered my services, which they gladly took.

It didn’t take long for us to get in trouble. We’d barely left town before running into a group of fierce wolves. And the next day we ran into bandits trying to waylay a farmer delivering hay to the castle.

… I’m sure his ghost approved of how quickly we dispatched the villains. And that we opted to deliver his hay for him.

That’s a good ending place for now.