Diary of Pip Rippon

We set out -- me and Shad, as ever my guide and protector -- for a major walk. Our destination Strines reservoir and the structure known as Boots Folly, which we have been wanting to visit for some time. We headed out down the Loxley valley, since that is the fastest way out of Hellsborough and into The Dark Peak.

Cutting left at Rowel bridge and up to Storrs, taking the pudding poke to Dungworth, down the sidling hollow, past Corker walls and out beyond Ughill brook -- staying on the road this time, having had previous problems with demonspawn.

The wilderness is beyond, which is West Shaw lane, and feels like it goes on forever. Eventually though, you reach the Sugworth road, with the ripperwings patrolling the moors, and forever in your thoughts that chance of an encounter with a ripperthroat or a member of The Xin on some mission or other.

And then, there it is: The tower -- standing majestic over the Strines reservoir. A sight to behold, no doubt. The ancient tower of dreams, the dark tower. It's a long journey. It was a spiritual journey, I'm glad we made it.

Coming back overland, many a wooltard, which had Shad in a state of frenzy, but I managed to keep him under control. Then our route blocked by the bloody-minded demonspawn -- on a public footpath -- I hate that. Had to to redirect down to Moscar, beyond the limits of the city, all the time followed by the demonspawn's listless gaze Then back down the full length of Rod side, past Crawshaw head, and Long lane and Riggs high road, and back into Stannington, before descending down, back to civilisation.

I was out for many hours. When I returned to the bosom of Hellsborough, all of the bars on the Middlewood road were closed.

An oddly clear day. Followed the swollen Rivelin, across the stones and up to Tofts; intended to walk up to Load Brook travelling further up the steep and dry lane of rust, ascending up the back of Stannington. But within what felt like only a few moments, the murk descended (or maybe I ascended?) until visibility was so bad that it was pointless to continue, and became so bad that half-way across the desolate fields in the direction of Flash, I simply about-faced and returned from whence I had came -- the threat of an encounter with demonspawn or The Xin being too worrying a concept -- even with Shad covering my back.

I'm laid up and on pain killers. It's easy to say that this was just an accident, and it was, but my mind is trying to tell me it was more than that, that there is some deeper meaning to this.

I was out in The Dark Peak, adventuring as usual. The murk was heavy but not excessive. Shad was by my side. My psycmask was fully charged and operating correctly. I had not yet met with Van in any bar, although I was scheduled to do so later in the evening. It really was a nothing of a day, nothing had happened and nothing was happening, it was a quiet walk. A calm and refreshing explore, as is my usual modus operandi.

A while back I mentioned being hoofed over by an inexplicably placed tripwire. This was similar, yet not the same, not so obvious. And on this occasion, I was felled so completely that the impact upon my shoulder as I collided with the forest floor snapped my upper arm bone clean in two. It was the strangest of feelings. I was walking at a normal pace through the Wisewood, and then all of a sudden, the mat of leaves beneath my feet -- as smooth as a snake on a marble sculpture -- simply slid backwards, bringing me down like a sack of spuds.

I knew I had done something "not quite right" as soon as I tried to get up again, since my right arm, as well as being in pain, just didn't work correctly -- no strength, entirely useless. I'm surprised I managed to clamber back up at all, but I did, and made it back to where I'm staying. Once there, my land lady (or owner, or manager, or whatever she is, I've not ever really worked it out) diagnosed the problem straight away -- I have to say, despite operating a business in Hellsborough and living life much like an jellyhead here or hereabouts, her way seems more in keeping with that of the crosslander: She is very knowledgeable on topics of health, welfare and the culinary arts.

Placing my arm in a sling -- there is no concept of a plaster cast -- she dosed me up on heavy duty painkillers, which she called crustins-me-ducktee (or words to that effect); not entirely sure what it would be, but I'd suspect that it had some rockcrust in there somewhere. It certainly did the job with the pain for a while, and she said she'd be more than happy to get me more whenever I felt I needed it. As part of my treatment plan she said that I would be fine to do whatever I needed to do, but don't drink alcohol. I took this as a general statement of advice, rather than a specific thing not to do with the "crustins".

I can confirm that drinking the crustins and a few beers does lead to some very lucid dreams, but I also put that down to the pain that I was in.

As to writing diary entries and continued exploring goes, my writing arm will be in this sling for several weeks, which is going to hamper things somewhat.

I found Van in one of his favourite bars on the Middlewood road in a vert and melancholic mood; he has had several jugs of strong ale and more than likely a headful of crust as well. This is supposed to be a time of merriment -- clearly Van is using it as a time of retrospection.

Believe me, Pip, I will relieve the burden of my care long before I become a burden to those who should be doing the caring. I’m not entirely sure of who Van is referring to here, he seems to be talking to the fireplace rather than directly at me. He is of an exceptionally advanced age, and as far as I know, he has no carers -- he lives alone in that great manse of his on the corner of the corner.

Some will say my actions are those of a selfish person, Pip -- but it is them who are the selfish ones! They're the ones who cocoon themselves in their own little worlds and live their little Ducklocksly lives in accordance with their ancient scriptures. These fools don't even realise that those scriptures are milting, and these selfish jellies, it is them that expect to be cared for in their old age. Not I.

Me? I’ll selflessly remove the need for my care long before I become a burden -- as I said: Once you have reached the stage in your existence where you need care, you should do the responsible thing: Celebrate your existence, step out of the circle and stop consuming precious resources that your fellow apes could be consuming for themselves.

Well, so far the New Year of Squall-Longleg has lived up to its name, and it hasn't even started yet. Squall is that type of rain that wets you throughly, thin, light, lazy rain, the type that blows straight through you -- hence the term lazy, it can't be bothered to go around, it just goes straight through. The longleg has long been associated with witchcraft and milting, and although they are less common than they use to be, they can still be spotted on occasion. The last time I happened upon one was out in the Coumes Wood -- I'm going to head that way tomorrow and see what I can spot. Happy Squall-Longleg!

Our -- mine and Shad's -- first major outing since I broke my arm under those bizarre circumstances. I decided that we would tackle that mountain which had eluded us for so long last year. What do you know? The hail of last year -- hail-ripperthroat -- wasn't a problem this year, nor has it been.

We attacked Onesmoor from the side of the Coumes wood, and were pretty much left alone by the murk, which was good news. In fact, it was the opposite: A hot and sweaty ascent in the forest, which this time of year was most unexpected. The coumes rift worm didn't make an appearance, but as I have mentioned in this diary previously, Shad was very much on edge, and you suspect that the creature, whilst not visible (or even alive), is most definitely around this place in spirit.

As is fitting for the day and the new year, saw a brace of longleg (usually solitary creatures, I'm sure?) tearing up the side of the rift -- maybe they were milting, that would also be appropriate.

But coming out of the forest dripping wet, your blood at boiling point, you are then exposed to the full force of the cross wind whipping across the face of the moor. The bleak and inhospitable tundra of Onesmoor is then a challenge to behold, and you stumble over that landscape, loosing feeling in your legs, as your body fights against the cold.

At 1200 feet or so above sea level with a view that stretches to the end of the world though, the pain and exhaustion are worth the effort, and the murk stayed away for long enough to make the view worthwhile; in fact it was not the murk today, but of course, the squall of the year's name that decided to make an appearance, forcing me away from the high lands and back down towards the Loxley valley.