25th of Tarsakh, 1492

The rain has been unrelenting until today, when we awoke to a misty moisty morning, and a landscape blanketed in fog and fresh fungus. As we began to stir, the mushrooms crushed underfoot emitted black spores and, more strangely, haunting moans of agony.

Petrified by cowardice, the merchants wanted to remain in place, but we could all see that the mushrooms were growing at a rapid pace. My fellowship of cunts understood from experience that, if we were going to escape this fiercely fecund fungal jungle, we needed to act fast. Together, we began to kick and smash and hack and blast a path of merciless murder through the miserably moaning mushrooms.

By the end of our day’s mycocidal campaign, many of the more sensitive souls among us, including sweet Gunx and tender little Tolarin, were quite shaken by this antifungal holocaust. Personally, I just pray to Beshaba that the next inn we find serves a good roasted mushroom soup, klaatu barada nikto amen.

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