Dear Reader,

The following pages contain an accounting of one of my grandmother’s many adventures; or according to my father and I, misadventures. The tale told is based on as many facts as possible but due to her advanced age, forgetfulness and basic disregard for common sense, some creative liberties have been taken. I warn you in advance that aspects may seem like fiction, believe me they are not. It is hard to capture the essence of the woman and not be sucked into the realm of the ridiculous. I have been told many remarkable tales of her adventures. This narrative could not possibly impart them all to you. In its entirety, this story is but a single week in a remarkable life.

Kind regards,

Marcus Forgefoot

Chapter 1. Backwards and Forwards

The story begins in the shadow of Mount Dragon Claw, a peak in the Snow Blight Range. It is important to note the secondary location, for as of the writing of this story five such named mountains have been catalogued across the continent. Why five you ask? Ask the elder dragon responsible, why they thought it was funny to give that name to every one? Also ask them, before they eat you, how many times they have pulled that prank. I could guess, knowing what I know about dragons, there are likely more than five, but the true number of Mount Dragon Claws is irrelevant to the tale to be told.

Three days travel from the tree line of this particular Mount Dragon Claw, nestled in a mostly hospitable valley, sits the small village of Hopesgrove. It is here that the protagonist of this tale lived well into her twilight years. Hopesgrove, like many other frontier communities, was founded by a group of washed-out adventurers, who as my grandmother would say, “Were screwed harder than a nut on a gnome automaton”, by the Adventurer’s Guild and the Crown. My grandmother was one of those founders, once known as the adventurer Brenda “Calamity” Brashblood, or “Calamity Blood” on the faded wanted posters she displayed on family occasions.

As an adventurer, my grandmother traveled the world as “Calamity” hunting wealth, glory and magical weapons. As a wanted lady of “solid dwarven stature and a chiseled body that no bearded dwarf could resist” (her quote), she married the first poor man who showed her any real interest. As she once recounted, “my choices out here were as numerous as hairs on a lizardman’s head. I am only glad I found him before the dryad finished tempering his blade.”

The poor chap she rescued was my Grandfather, Barroc Forgefoot, a miner out looking for precious deposits. His exact words on the meeting were and I quote, “She was not the kind of precious jewel I was looking for, but some gems are so fine they just have to be plundered.” To say my grandparents are a unique pair is a criminal understatement.

After a crossbow wedding administered by the only local, ex-adventurer outlaw cleric, Brenda “Calamity” Brashblood became Amanda Byre Forgefoot, choosing her new identity by a simple amalgamation. The rest, as they say, is history - albeit one hundred and fifty years of it. Their legacy currently numbers six children and twenty-two grandchildren of which I am the sixteenth.

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You are perhaps wondering by now what all of this has to do with a misadventure? Take heart, dear reader - we are almost through with the backstory. As my grandmother would say, “You cannot go on an adventure without bashing a few skulls and you cannot justify the skull bashing without context.”

Over the years, Hopesgrove flourished, Amanda Byre Forgefoot became the proprietor of Calamity’s Kitchen, the only tavern in town. To everyone in the now well-established town, she was known as Grandma Forge, a doting motherly figure, but one whom ought never be crossed. To those of us in the family she was Mum or Granny. As is the duty of all mothers, she spoiled us rotten. She delighted in many a cold winter’s night spent huddled around the fire and entertained us with wonderful, outlandish tales of adventures.

Now, we arrive at the beginning of the misadventure. I was in my tenth year when the misadventure took place. The snow had only started to gather on the upper slopes of Mount Dragon Claw. My mother was due for her shift at the Calamity Kitchen and Dad was still out trading for more goods to hold us through the rough winter. As usual we were taken to Granny’s kitchen to spend the day learning our letters and numbers, a task I loathed at the time, but am now grateful for. My two younger sisters were with me as we entered and offered our greetings to Aunt Mavis and Uncle Still, who grunted in our direction while dealing with the breakfast rush in the communal area. We trundled into the kitchen where Granny was busy stirring her latest culinary creation in a pot that looked like repurposed full plate armor.

I remember the smile on her face like yesterday as she stopped stirring to pick up my youngest sister Hazel.

“How is my youngest, sweetest little grand-darling?” She would ask this question every day, to you may look like she was playing favorites, I assure you each of us were subjected to the same assurances.

“I’m growing good, Granny - six more sleeps!,” Hazal exclaimed excitedly. She was one week exactly from her fifth birthday; we all knew that Granny would always ask what cake or treat we wanted a week before the big day.

“Really!,” Grandma said with a grin. “You do not look like a big girl, look at those gorgeous baby ringlets and chubby checks.” Hazel squealed and wiggled in Grandma’s iron grip as the playful hair twirling and check pinching commenced.

After a short reprieve, Granny asked Hazel “So little one, what sort of fabulous wonder can I create to make your Birthday special?”

I remember Hazel’s answer and the reaction that Grandma gave, it still amazes me to this day. The look of total shock, her mouth then scrunched in thought and the eventual mischievous smile she gave. It was the first and last time I saw such an occurrence, Granny was always measured. Until the day she died I never once witnessed a reaction like that again.

What was Hazel’s answer you ask? Well, I will not keep you in suspense any longer.

“Granny, I want the big yellow cake. The surprise cake that was in your story.” Hazel looked at her with the biggest puppy eyes imaginable. To say I was confused was an understatement. What tale had my baby sister heard that I had not? Second, Grandma’s eventual answer was so left side of the barn that it was hard to forget.

“The big yellow cake?” Granny said with a grin. “I will not be able to hide a monster in yours.”

“It’s fine, Granny, you can put something else in mine.” Those puppy dog eyes held fast. Hazel had perfected an adorable act that could melt the hardest imperial inquisitor. In hindsight she would have made an excellent thief. I guess a merchant is essentially the same thing. She always was Daddy’s girl and followed his example well.

“Of course I will, Angel.” Grandma’s smile got wider again, the next sentence she uttered was so nonsensical, I did not realize she was serious until a few days later.

“I am going to need Goblin Flowers and Treant Nuts.” That statement was the end of the exchange. Granny turned to Mum, instructed her to finish the cooking; and without a further word proceeded to bound up the stairs to her apartment.