Today marks an unprecedented in the history of the expeditions to the Caves of Myrddin and the dungeons below Castle Dundagel. Abbot Wendron pays a personal visit on the guest house where most of the adventurers stay between delves. Normally he stays away from the place so he can plausibly deny knowledge of the shenanigans that go one there, but through a discreet messenger he quietly gives you one hour's notice of his visit, giving you a chance to tidy up a bit. The following is his address to all those present:
The peace of Christ and his servant Saint Emmet be upon you all.
My friends, three days ago my brothers and I had to bury one of your number, a lad named Gomma. We are all born into this vale of tears not knowing the number of our days, but knowing that the numbering will be short. That he died young does not trouble me, especially considering the dangers he accepted in plumbing the hell-tainted depths of the nearby dungeons.
What troubles me was that he death was unnecessary and avoidable. Though slain by one of the numerous deathtraps below the ruined castle, what truly killed Gomma was foolishness. Not his own folly, though perhaps he was not the sharpest knife in the kitchen, but rather he was slain by the folly of another. It seems several of you have taken to bringing some chalk into the dungeon and mislabeling things, in hopes of luring your fellows away from treasure and towards deadly traps. It was one of these chalk messages that led to Gomma's demise.
Men, this horse hockey has got to stop. I know that there is a finite amount of treasure in those haunted crypts and each of you wants it all for himself, but ask yourself who these subterfuges really serve. Every time you draw one of these deceptive signs the Vampire Lord of Crows licks his beak in anticipation of fresh blood. Every time you get out your chalk in hopes of tricking other adventurers the Dragon of Dundagel laughs and counts his gold, secure in the knowledge that you are helping to protect it!
There's no point in attempting to enforce my wishes with an array empty threats. I can't police what happens down in those hellholes. So I won't huff and puff and threaten to withhold our hospitality here or our clerical aid should my advice be ignored. But consider the words of this old man as friendly advice. Nothing would please me more than for you to kill all the monsters, find all the gold and most of all, come back alive. So do yourselves a favor and worry less about the handful of competitors for the loot and worry more about the horrid monsters that oppose you all.
And for Christ's sake, clean this place up a little. What is that smell?
Hooligan Troupes of the Hither-Fells
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