Diary of Pip Rippon

Got into the Crosslands, through the Scraith wood and up onto Parkwood Springs for a change. Spotted a ripperwing out on the wastelands close to the great Penistone road, which was a surprise. Despite the general grimness of Hellsborough, the murk was almost non-existent out in the Crosslands -- or Nether lands -- if you prefer, and I managed to absorb some vitamin D from that strange (to Hellsboroughites) spherical heavenly object known to the rest of us as The Sun.

This obviously got me thinking about why the folk of Hellsborough don't get ill of D-Vit deficiency. You would think that -- as that particular vitamin is only acquired by the human body via absorption from sunlight, that people in Hellsborough would be as sick as a rooter most of the time -- but that simply isn't true -- the Hellsborough folk, are, in general, I find, in very rude health. The answer, of course, now that you and I know a little about the dynamics of Hellsborough, is pretty obvious -- psycmasks. The psycmask due to it nano material nature is worn both ubiquitously and discretely, and provides all of the necessary nutrition -- including vitamin D -- to keep the population working at their upmost efficiency. Clever species, The Nascenti.

Met Van in a pub down by the banks of the Dun. I hadn't ever noticed before, he has a tattoo on his inner right forearm of that most mythical and mystical of creatures -- a stinger.

Shad turned a bit today, I think he was excited by the energy of the wood, and the enigma that is The Great Coumes Rift -- a fissure that cuts its way through the landscape, as if rended by some ancient giant, or maybe the devil, with an enormous axe. Legend has it that the Coumes Rift worm -- some demonic venomtooth with a girth of several hands, lived there. Maybe it still does, Shad might be testament to that if he was picking up on its energy and not just that of the woodland. Anyway, according to legend, the creature was slain by some warrior, who had encased himself in a spikey armour that he had had fabricated by the little mesters of the Rivelin valley. The warrior got into close combat with the worm -- maybe a venomtooth, maybe a dragon -- history doesn't categorise so well -- and the spikes on his armour cut the worm to shreds. Rest in Peace, Coumes Rift worm. Yet, I feel -- or at least Shad did -- that the spirit of the thing exists to this day. The murk conceals many cryptids and creatures, who's to say that the worm isn't one of them? I'll do some more research, see what I can turn up about this seemingly anonymous warrior, since I'm sure there has to be more information out there somewhere.

Many paces walked over the last weekend, and the murk was light, so made going easy. Got out the back of Stannington -- half expecting to see some of The Xin, but wherever the warlike species was, they avoided me, or maybe I -- in my naivety and ignorance, avoided them. Did see a couple of hoverwing, and a ripperwing out hunting, harried by the ubiquitous corvid that were circling over something out of view, probably the carcass of some slain grizzler or maybe a fallen wooltard, they're not very good at staying alive sometimes, them wooltards.

Got into Hellsborough with Shad, but only for a brief tour of the block. The off-world has been consuming my time too much again and basically conspiring against me. Van materialised as if from nowhere, which was some solace and a sounding board for me after what has been a difficult day.

He had this to say, which strengthened my resolve somewhat, despite its brutality. "These quacker mards" said Van, "don't deserve a moment more of your time. What are you doing it for? You're trying to take them forwards, to improve their lives, and all they give scratcher turd about is protecting their own arses. You should get yourself out of there, stop listening to their demonspawn crap and join me here more often. This is where it's at, not that blething ivory tower top-down thinking clucker sucking establishment of furthering no-one's education in particular."

At that point, I thought he'd probably finished, since he'd really said enough of everything that needed to be said, and I managed to get a word in: "Loyalty?" I said

Van hadn't finished at all though, he was just starting out: "Those rooter licking critter-mards don't give a grizzler's jiz about your loyalty. You have a lot to learn young one."

Young one. Van keeps calling me young one as if I am young, but then, I suppose in comparison to him, I am -- as are most folk. "That barker there, he's loyal, he'll be by your side come thick or thin. But your loyalty, to them gabbleratchets, they don't care about your loyalty. With them you need to tick the eyes and cross the lips, or they'll snuff you faster than a ripperthroat snuffs a wooltard, and if you've never seen that, it don't take long at all; it'll all be over in a matter of moments.

Mark my words young one. Don't trust these demonspawn crust-peeps, they're not to be trusted. By the stinger of Dunlockslyn these jellyheads must be off of their faces on rockcrust!"

With that, Van, seemingly exhausted by the issuance of his wisdomly advice slumped back into his bar chair and picking up his pipe, took one enormous suck before passing out.

Straight up and down Onesmoor yesterday as the murk was thin and Hail-Ripperthroat had taken a break from its usual onslaught.

The murk showed no mercy today when I was out and about either during the day or in the evening. Snow, hail, sleet, rain, it seems to be tracking me wherever I go -- the murk tracking my wearabouts, I'm not sure about that myself, but it certainly feels to be true.