Bayou Birr is rike Hally Frashman in Boxel Leberreon. During battre, he nowhele be seen. When done, he in just right prace to gain cledit. [Translator/Editor hired to translate journal] No one is certain whether it will accomplish anything to find Miss Zarida, but since Mr. Ming seems very agitated about his special book and since its origins predate the history of Malifaux, it looks like we need to talk to her or talk to the Neverborn. I’m not sure, from what I hear, that you’re going to get much discussion out of the Neverborn—at least, not so you can remember it.
To get to Miss Zarida, you have to travel the swamp. Even getting to the swamp was a hassle. The first night we camped, we were awakened by a howling or mewing that came from a clump of rocks, roots, brush and trees. We saw three sets of eyes clearly. I tossed a jar of sleep gas in the direction of the three coyotes (for so I assumed they were). The eyes drooped some, but when they didn’t close, I knew I needed to add another pinch of nightshade to the mix.
Too late now, I realized that the rifleman fired and infuriated one of the creatures… uh … only the creatures turned out to be ONE creature with THREE heads! They told me we would encounter strange, unsettling things in the swamp, but we weren’t even there yet. I was horrified and readied the one jar of explosive mixture I had concocted. It’s not dynamite, but it can even do a heck of a lot more when it picks up some collateral material to impact the target than it does by itself. The others were good shots, but I was very proud when my explosive sent rock shards into the creature and pushed it on its way to oblivion. One of our party even harvested some of the organs. I hope we don’t have to eat them, but I suppose I’m not so far removed from my homeland that I don’t remember that a Chinaman who wants to be certain he eats must be willing to be creative.
When we continued onward, trying to take the wagon as far as we could, men who acted like (and vaguely resembled humanoid versions of) moles burrowed underneath Bayou Bill’s wagon and attacked the rifleman. The rifleman is a very good shot. I’m not! I remembered a little trick from my grimoire. Mentally massaging the earth and metallic elements from the air, I concentrate them into a conical projectile, my personal body heat doing the welding and my perspiration providing the relief. My thoughts send the projectile right into the enemy. The first enemy only showed a slight vibration at the impact, but the second one to feel my pain was forced to absorb the maximum force I can currently give it. There you have it (air, earth, metal, and heat, relieved by water—perfect balance), with such balance the old shaman who recognized my talent would have been proud.
We finally reached the goblin village. Some drank their firewater, but I feared it might immobilize me like opium had sent my ancestors to the nether plane. I was glad I didn’t, for I was ready to fight the wargeists the next morning when we took the boats on the water. The wargeists were like vicious dogs and Bayou Billy warned us NOT to go near the trees if they were near. In the course of our fight, we found out they summoned the trees. I will have to study my grimoire to try to figure how to untie their unholy mixture of earth, air and water. It is unbalanced enough that there should be a weakness. Until then, I had to use my Drakon pistol and, while I hit one of them, it didn’t accomplish much. Perhaps, I should stick with my grimoire if I can.