Franz Lohner's Chronicle - Provisions

An absent-minded man of mysteries, Franz Lohner relies on his bulging journal to keep track of occurrences, intrigues and arguments around Taal's Horn Keep. Sometimes his notes are even useful, believe it or not. The Franz Lohner Chronicles are extracts from that journal.

With a series of pilgrimages into the Chaos Wastes underway, Bardin, our resident ranger – although after Olesya’s little performance last week, that’s a more complicated concept than it was – has taken it upon himself to give us the benefit of his wisdom concerning what makes for a proper traveller’s haversack. And I have to say, the results were certainly an eye-opener … for one reason or another.

For one thing, Ranald take me for a fool if that dwarf doesn’t know how to cram a pack. Bardin was still brandishing items from the unknowable depths well after I’d thought the blessed thing empty, and when he was finally done, the pile of provisions, tools, weapons and assorted bric-a-brac stood almost as tall as him. Miraculous, and that’s not a word I use lightly.

As to the contents themselves? Our Bardin knows how to be prepared, I’ll give him that. Cooking pans. Flensing knives. Ropes. A handful of pitons and a pair of gromril crampons that shone beautifully in the firelight. A folding telescope. A collapsible fishing rod. A clockwork tinderbox. A lantern and several flasks of oil. A small runic talisman on a string he swore blind would lead him to fresh water. Spare boots. Spare gloves. Spare chainmail links, and the tools to make the repairs. A dunging cup, whatever that is. And a tiny book with a heavy padlock which he refused to explain, but I’m pretty damn certain is his personal Book of Grudges. 

Probably best not to ask how many times my name shows up in there. 

And the provisions? Well, they weren’t so impressive. No … that’s not fair. It was all impressive. I think the word I’m looking for is ‘appetising’. 

I’m fond of the odd apple when I’m on the march, but apples should be green, red … or maybe a little bit yellow. Not brown and shrivelled. And those little glass jars filled with stewed troll? Kulgur, he called it. Nothing edible should pulse like that. The nuggets of cheese carefully wrapped in his spare socks? (He didn’t specify whether or not the socks had yet been worn.) I’ll pass, thanks. Strips of goat meat roasted black and curling up at the edges? Not my sort of thing at all.

And the less said about the waxy remnants of candles – or what Bardin said were candles – the better. Never mind his claim that something you can variously burn for light or chew on to restore flagging strength being “a fine example of the ingenuity that dawi holds are built on”. I don’t see it catching on with the others. I mean, I’m pretty sure I saw a troll’s claw embedded in one of those candles. Given the colour Sienna went, I wasn’t the only one.

Judging by his expression, I reckon Bardin knew he’d lost his audience at that point. Muttering into his beard, he set about packing everything back up. One by one, useful and revolting alike, the items vanished whence they’d come until there was just a disgruntled dwarf, an impossibly small haversack, and the unshakeable memories of things we’d all rather have left unseen.

On the other hand, if things go badly in the Chaos Wastes, maybe everyone’ll be glad of a fatty troll’s finger or two to suck on. I’m just glad I’m staying here, thank you very much.