The Bowerstone Times

The Bowerstone Times is not responsible for any negative impacts articles may have on your standing and respectfully asks not to be addressed with concerns of libel. All such concerns should be addressed to our Public Relations office.

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Internal Memo

Eh, so its that bloke again? I wonder what he has to hide. I’d love to get some real dirt on him, I can just smell that he is into something darker than smuggling. No need to remind me to watch my back, I always do.

- Lou Pine

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Internal Memo

Look! A death threat that’s not my fault this time.

Who is Leo Head and when did they own Bowerstone Castle?

- Pierce

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Internal Memo

I don’t do this often, but I feel you lot should read this letter I just received. Be not alarmed; it’s the height of humour, I assure you.

Editor,

I appreciate that you’ve once again found your fervour for speaking of the past (I recall the last time you ran this column—Bowerstone castle belonged to Leo Head at the time, did it not?) but I must insist you guard your words with a touch more care. The spilling of secrets is all well and good until you spill the wrong ones. Just imagine all the mess it would cause should someone take offense! Something might happen to you. Or to one of your reporters.

A good day to you, dear.

Yours respectfully, A Concerned Reader

What a cheeky dickens.

Once you’ve all had a read, give it back so I can add it to his file. I’ve dealt with him before and I doubt this is the last time he’ll have complaints.

- Ainsworth

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CHANCES FOR SUN (eventually) AT 100%

Sun, sun, sun!!! Is it in our forecast? Well of course it is, after just a few more months of rain, hail & the occasional deluge. So be sure to keep your eye out for the latest in warm weather attire, the season will be upon us before we've dried out our favorite parasol.

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The Visitor’s Guide to Albion: Wraithmarsh

by: A. Ainsworth

The South calls host to many secrets, pleasant and not. Among them are lost towns and countless lost lives, all buried beneath what is now known as the Wraithmarsh.

Once it was the Kingsvale—lush, green, and full of life. Travel was frequent between Lantern (which would one day become the city we now call home) and Anchor, which lied at the farthest point South. It was a beautiful time for Albion. But Darkness crept into the forests, seeding its way into the Vale, and gone was the flowers and greenery. Darkwood rose in its stead, spreading as far North as what is now called Brightwood and as far South as it could reach before the sea.

Trade became less frequent as beasts came to control the wood, but its residents persevered. From the ashes rose the region of Barrow Fields and the town of Oakvale. Little information remains on the Barrow Fields, only that it was a farming community and a haven for traders—though some, darker, rumours claim the illustrious sorceress Lady Grey hailed from this region, though finding proof is, understandably, difficult. There is slightly more information on Oakvale. A sleepy fishing village, it was home to the legendary Jack-slayer. Over the years, however, its reputation became more sinister when it became the centre of a country-wide quest to hunt down and slay all Heroes in Albion. A mistake for which I fear we are still paying dearly.

Neither town exists now, their disappearances shrouded in mystery. I have heard claim as to why they no longer exist—that the stories of beasts or magic are false, and that it was someone else entirely—but my dear readers must forgive me for not publishing it, if only because I cannot verify it.

All that I can say is true, is this: once both towns met their end, the Marsh came. And grew. It seeped into every tree, house, and tomb and claimed all in its path as living things are wont to do. For the Marsh is alive, as alive as fire or wind, and it grows with purpose humanity cannot possibly understand. Only one town in its patch has escaped its spread: Bloodstone, a pirate port beyond the law and decree of the Crown.

And I am—we are left with questions. Can you not guess them, dear readers? Our answers are out there somewhere, if only lost to time.

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THE DOCKSIDE DO-GOODER: HERO OR MENACE?

by: Lou Pine

In the last six months, there have been a growing number of sightings of a masked vigilante prowling Bowerstone Industrial and Market. All have been at night. All the guards have found upon arriving at the scene are varying numbers of known criminals beaten into submission and evidence of what they had been up to.    

This vigilante has been most active in Bowerstone Industrial, earning himself the title “The Dockside Do-gooder” from the local folk, whom he has reportedly saved from harm on multiple occasions. When asked about him some called him a hero, others an avenging angel, and by one elderly fellow: “A barmy bloke who runs across people’s roof tops in the dead of the night in his pyjamas!” When inquiries were made to the guard captain of Bowerstone, his reply was: “Law enforcement should be left to the professionals and not to some lunatic in a mask and cheap costume.”

That response is understandable, but the facts cannot be ignored. Bowerstone Industrial has long been a hot bed of crime and violence. Perhaps the most noteworthy crime to be committed there in living memory occurred fifteen years ago; the robbery and murder of a nobleman and his wife, witnessed by their son who was left an orphan. It certainly drew the most action by the guards and the King himself of any crime in living memory. Despite all efforts the murders remain unsolved to this day. The people of Bowerstone Industrial, by general consensus, have felt safer in their beds since this nocturnal agent of justice began to prowl the nights.

The most recent appearance of the Dockside Do-gooder involved the discovery of contraband aboard the newly arrived ship of importer and businessman Mr. Reaver. When approached to get his opinion on this vigilante he refused to answer and gave me every indication that such business was beneath him. To be fair, he was rather busy with a rather brisk discussion with the local guard captain, who was overseeing the confiscation of the cargo of his ship. A request to King Logan to express his thoughts on this vigilante, to which he replied: “While the crown can appreciate the spirit of this Dockside Do-gooder, and his actions against the criminal element, it does not condone his actions and asks that the people place their trust in the guard rather than a vigilante.” Given the fact the guard has struggled, and by in large failed, to tame the criminal element in Bowerstone Industrial for years, one cannot blame the people for supporting someone who is actually producing results.

Whoever this shadowy cavalier is, he has inspired fear in the criminals active in the Bowerstone area. When asked what he looked like none could give many details and they were never in agreement. Some said he looked like an oversized Hobbe and hit like a troll. Some think he is the former King, The Hero of Bowerstone returned to life to protect his town. All efforts to meet and interview him have failed. This paper does not endorse The Dockside Do-gooder but it does applaud his efforts to tame the roughest area of our fair city.

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The Visitor’s Guide to Albion: Brightlodge

by: A. Ainsworth

Travel to the base of the Mistpeak Mountains and you will find a town trapped in time.

Before there was Bowerstone, there was Brightlodge. The town was epicentre to the rise of Heroes and was pivotal to our recovery from “the Dark Times”, as historians have termed them. Situated atop a waterfall, the town was strategically protected from most forms off attack—on one side lies a deadly drop, on the other numerous cliffs—and  once flourished with trade. Had you ventured to Brightlodge in its golden years, you would have found streets thronged with townspeople and Heroes strolling along the masses with alarming regularity.

Brightlodge is silent now; its streets empty. There is no indication as to what happened to its inhabitants. Historians have no words in their books, and I have found no evidence walking its streets. Eerily so, the town is in perfect repair, as if its occupants left only moments before my arrival and not countless winters ago. The plants are pruned, the tables are lain, and the stone has not crumbled. Thorough searching has produced neither cobwebs nor infestations of gobbits or any other creature that enjoys abandoned real-estate.

Struggles for information led me to Mr. Atticus Croddle, noted historian and creature expert, but I was left with more questions than answers. What happened to Brightlodge? We have nothing but speculation. Some claim that Heroes abandoned the town in its most desperate hour whilst others claim the townspeople were chased out by angry villagers from outlying hamlets. Another is that the people merely left, tired of the pain brought on to them through association with Heroes. But tis another theory that chills me: that a man who thought himself kin with the Gods saw no more worth to the town and erased its residents from existence.

We may never know what became of Brightlodge, but there is still hope for it. One day it may see life and residents again. Until then, it waits, silent and lonely, until it can be freed from its slumber.

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ROBBERY LEAVES MILLFIELDS RESIDENTS REELING

by: Pierce A. Mulch

Millfields’ residents are in a state of shock this morning, following the suspected robbery of Ms. Delia Verne. We in Bowerstone are no strangers to robbery, but what marks this specific incident as remarkable is the utter lack of evidence. In fact, this reporter’s contact in the guard states that: “Were it not for the fact that the safe was open and things are missing, we’d not have thought a robbery had happened at all.”

The guard has assured the Times that they have interviewed Ms. Verne’s staff and neighbours most thoroughly, but have no leads. Among the items stolen is a jewelled necklace reported to be worth 10,000g and several other small pieces of jewellery. If anyone has any information, they are asked to speak with their local guard’s office at once. A reward of half the objects’ value has been offered to anyone whose information produces the lost jewels.

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Dear Mattie, I asked a girl I like to come around for dinner next week. I don't know how to cook. What do I do?

Dear Anonymous,

Are you an idiot? You say you like this girl, then spend a few gold at the Cock in the Crown. Maybe she’ll even reciprocate instead of spending the evening with her head in a bucket because you’ve given her food poisoning. Wouldn’t you rather be kissing her ale coated lips at the end of the night, than your blight on cooking regurgitated mishap still lingering on her breath? Don’t be a moron, take the girl out and kiss her with confidence.

- Mattie

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The Visitor’s Guide to Albion: The Rosewood

by: A. Ainsworth

There is an Old Kingdom saying that I often heard repeated in the South as I was growing up: “Mothers’ care, lest babbies be, a wretched clot of villainee”. That I say this here should very well give indication to where this dictation is headed.

The Rosewood is one of Albion’s most striking natural features. In the winter, it is a cold tangle of thorny vines. In the summer, a leafy region that is indistinguishable from any other wood in Albion. However, when it blooms—once in the spring and again in autumn—it is cloaked in legions of white roses from one end to the other. The petals fall, coating the wood’s floor like snow, and the scent of the flowers carries for miles. As one who has visited this region, the claims that it smells of ambrosial delight are true.

It is one of the few Wilds left in Albion. There are many claims that it is one of the few regions where the Fae still walk, untouched and uninterfering with the world. And legend tells of a far greater prize sequestered in its depths: the dreamer’s rose, capable of granting eternal sleep to any who touches it. But it is not my job to relay baseless rumours, only lost history. And, of that, I have only one story to tell:

There was once a girl, beloved by none and alone. The wood had been small and roseless then, and she longed for any bit of love or affection she could find. But all favoured her sister. And so she disappeared into the wood. The roses grew, the wood spread, swallowing nameless towns lost to time, and the soil grew rich with blood and Will. The girl remained—of the roses and of the wood. Walk deep enough into the Rosewood and you will find her, waiting and alone but for her children. She had found her piece of beauty and affection; admirers will not find welcome.

To those contemplating visiting the Rosewood I offer one piece of advice: do not touch the roses. They are spoken for, and not for your hands.

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GRUESOME ACCIDENT IN FACTORY CLAIMS ONE; RAISES CONCERNS ABOUT SAFETY OF INDUSTRIAL EQUIPMENT

by: Pierce A. Mulch

In what has to be one of the most horrifying accidents in Bowerstone Industrial’s short life, a woman has perished today in one of Mr. Ernest Faraday’s newest, and purportedly grandest, factories.

Dr. Horatio Slacks, 39, and his wife, Mrs. Slacks, 28, were touring the factory when workers were summoned to their location by Dr. Slacks’ shouts of anguish. According to the doctor’s account, Mrs. Slacks had been contentedly examining a specific piece of machinery when she suddenly cried out. Another machine had caught the sleeve of her gown and, within seconds, she had been taken in by the equipment. A short investigation has found death was instantaneous and that no blame is to be placed on either party.

“My heart goes out to Mrs. Slacks’ husband and family,” Mr. Faraday has stated, when pressed for a comment. “I plan to revise my current machinery to avoid this unfortunate tragedy from ever occurring again.”

Mr. Faraday has also offered reparations to Dr. Slacks, which were refused. “It could have happened to anyone,” Dr. Slacks stated. “It just happened to be my wife.”

Neither Dr. Slacks nor his wife are succeeded by any children. Funeral services to be announced presently.

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The Proof As It Is

Reports have surfaced of four persons sustaining aesthetic injuries and/or death* due to a photograph production accident in a local studio. As on off-the-record statement that we are publishing anyways, one of the involved persons recounted that the group were experimenting with different chemicals in an effort to create the best selfie filter when suddenly a bright flash erupted. This witness refused to give a further account, claiming “I’m BLIND now, I couldn’t see what happened next,” a baseless excuse by another drug addled criminal to obstruct the dissemination of truth, I’m sure.

At any rate, such accidents are happening with greater frequency, proving that developing a new method and machine to resolve this aesthetic epidemic is crucial so that no others suffer from heart attacks due to seeing falsified “ghosts” from double exposure, blindness from over saturation, or crippling paranoia, fear and trauma due to over exposure to the D.A.R.K. (Despairing, Annulling, Ripping, Klawing) Room.

However, attempts at recreating praised inventor Barnum’s “camera obscura” have been slow going. The latest technique—albumen prints—have hit a wall with all chickens declaring a strike to demand higher royalty payments, better egg-laying hours, and health benefits for their families. Farmer Sam from Brightwall is quoted to having “regret letting the little buggers unionize.” With the chicken strike, many have reverted to using the older technique of gelatin prints on silver, relying instead on the bones of animals who have not yet created a worker’s rights group—despite this method being extremely dangerous to the health of the animals involved.

Efforts to reverse engineer Barnum’s photographic process have also reached an impasse, with only one original photograph—taken of a man who absolutely wished to be named here—being known to have survived.

Be on the lookout for scams claiming to have invented the best new camera—if they did, you’d have read it here.

*The fourth casualty to this artistic accident was unavailable for comment as he was sucked into a daguerreotype glass print which was broken during the incident.

QED Quorum Ends Discussion

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Internal Memo

Dearest Mattie;

HER NAME IS HUMPHREY, YOU FOUL WITCH.

- Pierce

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Internal Memo

My job isn't to rewrite intros Ainsworth. Find me some damn questions. I'm tired of sitting around here watching Pierce play with his chicken.

- Mattie

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Internal Memo

Who...who authorized that? Mattie was supposed to be announcing that her column was a permanent feature. Why did Sunny introduce herself? She’s worked here a year. Better yet, who let Sunny get away with introducing herself? What are you people doing to my paper and where is Mattie’s column?

- Ainsworth

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CHANCES FOR SUN AT 100%

Did you just ask yourself have I indeed picked up The Bowerstone Times? Won’t there be day upon day of dismal cloud cover? And isn’t it true that tomorrow there will be a torrential downpour much like the last four days? Yes, all of these things are true, but I am here to guarantee bright, glorious sun in your future. You see I am Sunny Daze, your eye in the sky, your weather detector extraordinaire. Never again will you have to ask yourself whether to wear galoshes or Bleak Forest’s new high weather muck-ruckers. So, keep your eyes turned to the brighter things of the day, while I keep the clouds at bay.

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The Proof As It Is

Professor Faraday’s newest invention—a “robot”—is causing quite a stir. While heralded as a wonderful innovation by some, others are lashing out against these “job stealers” and “eventual people killers.” Critics claim that these robbers don’t obey the laws of nature and Professor Faraday has, in response to these accusations, delivered a set of standards that all of his ribbits will obey.

The Three Laws of Faraday’s Roberts: 1. A rambo may not decrease entropy, namely the number of human beings who could possibly tell them what to do, nor through inaction allow entropy to decrease, unless acted on by an outside farce. 2. A ribbon cannot even just ignore entropy. The rate of acknowledgement is dependent on the rampart’s mess and the farce exerted upon it. 3. Sucks to be the rembrandt that can't even end a miserable existence without creating an equal and opposite roble that now has the exact same problems, only backwards, doesn't it?

Q.E.D. Quincy Eliot Darcy