A heavy tome, stained with occasional splotches of beer, dirt, and grime rests under a short stack of contracts and a heavy iron mug half full of ale. At least once a day, it is referenced or added to.

Terrible day. Cyric himself decided to summon a pair of jawless flying skulls that might have burned down the Crone if my men and I hadn't been there to stop them. The fact that we were the reason why a local priest of the Black Sun expired moments before they appeared, and were therefore the cause of the destruction isn't terribly important to those who matter.

Found a few new thugs since last week. Most seem relatively handy with a club and know how to spot a vulnerable kneecap, which is just what I'm looking for. Most are showing some promise, especially after what happened later.

A trio of orcbloods tried to kill a few of my boys, so the only thing we could do after such an insult was to approach it logically and thoughtfull and, after much debate and consideration, we decided to hunt the beasts down and grind them into rothemeat pies. Two are dead, one remains. Oh, cruel fortune! He won't last long without his lackeys, I'm certain.

What a bizarre series of events. A friend of a friend showed up while we're chasing off some thugs and demands that we go help some of his men. Some plans depended on friends of his, and I wasn't about to let them go to waste, so we departed for the sewers at once. My men faced down a horde of Chosen and didn't flinch. Within half an hour of efficient slaughter, dozens of Chosen lay dead and all of my lackeys were still standing.

We didn't get much gold for our efforts, but I was given the pipe of a local celebrity. That'll get me pretty far.

A day later, a hand selected team joined me in taking on a horde of drugged ogres. Some would say that the slowed brutes weren't a real challenge, but I'm just glad they weren't sharp enough to take off my head.

Note to self, never kiss a woman from Lower. It's like licking a sewer wall.