Billy is Writing

  Memory Archive G047: The Unkillable Frogman It was a Tuesday unlike any other- painfully boring and entirely uneventful. Except for the fact that on further recollection, it was actually a Wednesday. Unfortunately, the day of the week change doesn’t change the fact it was a rather dull day. Grinkle Gronkle had spent the day searching every nook and cranny of Lowahter Swamp for the bounty he had undertaken. Lowahter Swamp was not the place you wanted to be on a boring day. Every tree, every bog, every bundle of vines and every croaking toad was exactly the same. It was the epitome of bland. This was why, Grinkle Gronkle supposed, that his prey had taken residence here. Where better for a Frogman to blend in? Frogmen are famously not a criminal people. They’re born in the swamps, spend their lives mining for swampcoal and then they die, rather plainly, in the swamps. It was just who they were, like how Gnomes are inherently mischievous scamps and Humans are widely simple and unin...

  Memory Archive G032: The Belligerent Gnome Jack Conelly’s tavern was as busy that night as it was every other night of the year, barring of course the Solstice. It was named the Wailing Banshee , on account of the wailing banshee that took residency there for the first five years of the tavern’s existence. A wandering party (under the employ of the F.B.E.C) removed the dastardly fiend one evening after it kept interrupting their revelries and Conelly’s grandfather felt it a fitting homage to name the establishment after her. Nobody remembers what it was called beforehand, but given that the tavern only really became popular after the name change, that's probably for the best. The Banshee’s local clientele occupied the dingiest corners of the place, just looking to spend their evenings getting drunk in solitude before they roamed the streets of Ravenscar in pursuit of a reasonably priced escort. Such delightful goings-on are, of course, commonplace in a big city like this. The r...

  Fantastical Being Number 26: Mr. Upside-Down Dear Diary (and adoring fans), It has been three weeks since my last entry. If I’m being entirely candid, I think we deserved a break after Number 25. How many people out there can say they spent seventy-two straight hours fending off relentless attacks from a three-headed Baboon King and then proceeded to get right back to work the next day? I dare say the answer to that question is a resounding nobody. And if somebody can, well. They’re obviously insane and therefore a complete statistical anomaly and should not be counted towards this discussion. If any of our dear readers are wondering why I’ve bothered to go off on this tangent, I assure you the people who that was for know exactly who they are. I hope this ends that infernal pedantic jibber jabber in the town squares. You have no idea how exhausting it is to be hounded with the same pointless queries on the way from the caravan to the tavern. But, I digress. It’s about time to...

  Downwind of the Dandelions Thursday the ninth of May is now a date that holds more significance to me than my own birthday. Hell, even Christmas. Okay, neither of those things are true. It was a great day, don’t get me wrong. But my birthday? Or Christmas. Perhaps the two greatest days of all time. We all know why my birthday rules though. I mean, me. It’s the origin of me. I’m the best. You get it. If I need to explain to you why Christmas rules, please stop reading now. The words in this story are going to have more than two syllables sometimes so this really isn’t for you. May the ninth. Let’s just get into it.  The first thing you need to know about this day was that it was unfathomably warm. Warm in May might not seem like a big deal to a lot of you, but you should keep in mind that I am English. I was raised on having 5 days of warmth spread throughout July and August for the first 15 or so years of my life. Until global warming reared its head, I knew nothing but damp...