Journal - Chronicles of Captain Clovenface

I remember the job. Bodyguard to a caravan, by way of Lone Lands to Bree. A few silver coins for an easy job seemed like a godssend, after the coin purse magically dried up when the damned smithy master raised the fees on using the place. I should've known something was shady, and perhaps I knew, but were willing to look the other way.
I shouldn't have. Turns out they were peddling stolen gear, from people robbed on the way. As a dwarf came in claiming ownership of one, I stood between them as I was paid for, but I won't be made a fool out of. Turning on the man that hired me is frowned upon, but when the contract is built on lies, I feel justified in breaking it. I was paid to escort merchants, not thieves.

I've been swarmed and beaten down, but I did lend enough help to the dwarf and those other folks to make a difference. When they helped me up, they introduced themselves as rangers. Yeah, those same folk that Bree-landers hate with passion, and despite that, every second fool trying to impress the women at the Pony claims to be. Though these were the real deal, and you could tell. They were few, but organised and skilled at what they did... for the most part, the young one was too brash and needed some good bout of talking sense into. Interestingly, there were women among them. One was some sort of a medicine woman, while other fought. Amusingly, she's the one I recently hired to clean my smithy. Seems we both had it better in the past.

There was some old man stirring trouble up. Sharkey or whatnot. Turns out, there were bandits on the Weathertop, lorded over by some sort of a goblin, of all creatures. Always found these buggers crafty, but never in a leadership way. Turns out I was wrong.
We went ahead and of course, the younger rangers wanted to start fighting right away, and the hot-headed dwarf didn't help at all. Some of the more level-headed people crafted a plan of posing as prisoners, while some of us carry them up to the ruins at the top of the mountain, and who was chosen for that if not the ugliest man around? I guess the scar does give me a level of authenticity. I do look like I should get ten years in a dungeon for my face alone.

And so we went. The fools were convinced and let us before their leader, a goblin with some magicked stick. He waved it around and cursed, challeinging me for superiority. He cast some sort of magic of his, but either it fizzled or was just nonsense. I do not disbelieve magic, I fought in the war long enough to not dismiss that.

I lopped it's head off and suddenly, everyone looked at me. I was their new leader now, the bandit chief. Captain Clovenface. I came up with that on the spot, but damned I'll be if it wasn't a good name. I ordered these fools around to go off and make use of themselves. Some did, I saw them in the town later, some went on banditing again. Ah well, slaughter avoided, reinforcements for that Sharkey man refused.

A job well done.

I should write all manners of dumb adventure stories about Clovenface. Take it as a writing persona or something. Who knows, maybe I'll earn something for my troubles?

Can't be worse than making pots and kettles all day long.