Several days ago, while drinking away my thoughts in some shithole bar in some shithole town called Gloomhaven, I was approached by a devil-woman who wanted to hire me to track a thief who wronged her in some way. I didn’t ask how, nor do I really give a shit. Seems she had also enlisted the help of a human with quick eyes and shifty hands. Calls herself Mary Sue; has an extremely unnecessary # of knives concealed about her person, which I’m sure she assumed I wouldn’t bother to note.
In our drunken gaiety that evening, we christened ourselves the Knights of Hen, apparently after some tavern tabby named Henri, who was no doubt sitting in judgement of our raucous festivities. In that honest vulnerability only shared by strangers deep in their ale, Mary shared w/ me her plan to turn merchant and leave life on the road behind. I, in turn, shared much of my childhood woes. This, at least, is the report that she gave me, for I have little memory of the evening.
This morning, we tracked the thief to a literal hole-in-the-ground. Place the locals call Black Barrow. We took down quite a few of his men, but their archers finally proved too cunning, and we retreated to camp broken and (on Mary Sue’s part) bloody. When we’ve recovered, we shall again attempt to clear the filthy hole of its new inhabitants.
We have to. I’m all out of ale money.
-Balboa
Journeys through Gloomhaven 