The Bowerstone Times is the self-proclaimed leading newspaper in Albion. While physical copies of the newspaper are not available in the games, two series of stories have been posted on Lionhead Studios' website.
Summary[]
Monster Feature! Fiends of Albion[]
The first set of stories - called "Monster Feature!" - was a series that focused on hostile creatures within Albion. Investigative reporter Penelope Chumley interviewed eccentric creaturologist Atticus Croddle regarding hollow men, hobbes, trolls, and balverines. After four issues, the series was officially ended.
- Hollow Men - Penelope Chumley interviews Atticus Croddle regarding Hollow Men (29 June 2012).
- Hobbes - Penelope Chumley returns to interview Atticus Croddle regarding Hobbes (13 July 2012).
- Trolls - Penelope Chumley sits down with Atticus Croddle for a third time to discuss Trolls (27 July 2012).
- Balverines - Penelope Chumley interviews Atticus Croddle for the final time regarding Balverines (10 August 2012).
Albion's Oldest Riddle: Theresa the Blind Seeress[]
The second series detailed the life and times of Theresa, the blind seeress. The first part details Theresa's childhood; her life in Oakvale and the horrific bandit raid that razed the hamlet and left her blind. The second part goes focuses on a series of re-enactments of Theresa's life carried out by Theresa's Fan Club. Members of the club and attendees also speculate on how Theresa has lived for so long, and Chumley is introduced to Bowerstone's Anti-Theresa Society. In the third part, Chumley is finally introduced to the shadowy leader of the Society: none other than the enigmatic Reaver, who goes on to make some startling (and dubious) accusations about Theresa's life and deeds.
- Part 1: Chocolates in the Mud - Penelope Chumley details Theresa's childhood and accompanies Bertie Knippet on a trip to the ruins of Oakvale.
- Part 2: Oddballs, Moles, and Bats - Penelope Chumley attends one of Theresa's Fan Club's bi-monthly re-enactments of Theresa's life.
- Part 3: Reaver is a Very Nice Man - Penelope Chumley comes face-to-face with the leader of Bowerstone's Anti-Theresa Society, Reaver, who shares some insights into Theresa's true nature.
Monster Feature! Fiends of Albion[]
Hollow Men[]
Albion's leading newspaper is proud to present the first in a series of interviews with noted historian and monster expert Atticus Croddle. We sent investigative reporter Penelope Chumley to speak with the eccentric creaturologist.
Entering the home of Atticus Croddle puts one in mind of a violent and rather objectionable amalgam of a butcher's shop, a museum, a library and a taxidermist's. Books and journals fight for space with severed paws and monstrous heads. Grisly specimens bob up and down in green-tinted jars. The smell of dry blood, wet ink and embalming fluid shocks the nostrils, while a menagerie of unearthly, stuffed creatures assaults the eyes and nerves. Yet no sight is quite so disconcerting as Mr Croddle himself. His perpetually bewildered stare, his sallow skin, his incontrollable tics – they all add up to what may be the most fascinating creature of all: the Albion scholar.
PC: I would like to begin by asking you about perhaps the most misunderstood inhabitant of our fair land, the hollow man. What can you tell us about these beings?
AC: Well, Penelope, we actually understand much more about them than we once did. Hundreds of years ago, when the world still believed in Heroes, people referred to them simply as the undead. A terrible misnomer, since they are very much dead. It is us, who are alive, who ought to be called undead. Or, in another example, you, who are quite short, might reasonably be called untall. And…
PC: Fascinating, but about these hollow men...
AC: Ah, yes. It was the great naturalist Bartholomew Briggard who first coined the term hollow man, after noticing that these reanimated corpses, often fallen soldiers, only stirred into unnatural life when a magical ball of light, known as a wisp, dove into the ground and entered the empty shell of a human cadaver. We believe these wisps to be the spirits of the dead – tormented souls stuck in this world, availing themselves of the nearest dead body to express their rage towards the living.
PC: But couldn't they express that rage by, say, writing a strongly worded message to our Letters page?
AC: No, no. You see, hollow men possess only the most rudimentary of intelligences…
PC: Have your read our Letters page?
AC: Ah, but you must remember that these are fallen soldiers, sometimes ancient warriors, sometimes casualties of recent wars. It is in their very nature to be belligerent. And, being dead and rather limited in their higher faculties, they cannot help but be slaves to that nature.
PC: Is it true they come in many flavours?
AC: I haven’t tasted enough of them to say with any certainty, but they can indeed vary in size and strength. Higher ranking soldiers would seem to make the most hardy and dangerous hollow men. Most prefer the use of a rusty sword, others prefer to hurl missiles, and yet others have mastered the use of shields. And, while they have traditionally been slow, lumbering things, I have recently observed an alarming new strain that moves towards its victim at great speed and explodes on impact.
PC: That is hardly sporting. They're zombies, after all.
AC: Now, now, Penelope. We mustn’t use that word. It is wholly inadequate and considered highly insulting in some circles.
PC: Of course, how could I forget the Hollow Man Anti-Defamation League.
AC: They are not to be trifled with. I’ve had a few of them boycott my experiments.
It is at this point that I notice a muffled sound coming from a cupboard behind Mr Croddle. The cupboard's door rattles briefly before our preeminent naturalist silences it with a backheel kick. His already anxious eyes fix on me in a most unnerving manner.
PC: Finally, the question all our readers have been asking themselves: are hollow men actually hollow?
AC: Not at all. I have a torso round here somewhere if you would care to poke around inside.
PC: That's all right. Thank you, Mr Croddle. I look forward to chatting about more of Albion's fiends in the near future.
Hobbes[]
Albion's leading newspaper is proud to present the second in a series of interviews with noted historian and monster expert Atticus Croddle. We sent investigative reporter Penelope Chumley to speak with the eccentric creaturologist.
As I sit back down in Mr Croddle's musty gallery of curiosities (also known as his living room), I notice the small cupboard behind him has now been padlocked. He offers me a cup of rusty tea from an odd-looking teapot he keeps under his armchair. I decline.
PC: It's fair to say you first made your name in the field of unnaturalism with your groundbreaking study of hobbes, titled Cryptic Taxonomy of Amorphous Bipedal Organisms, or Stop Gnawing on my Ribcage. What drew you to these horrid, little vermin?
AC: Well, hobbes may be horrid, they may be little, and they most certainly are vermin-like, but they are also fascinating, highly social creatures. My studies began with a desire to debunk the popular myths surrounding them.
PC: And these are?
AC: That they are children stolen away by nymphs, shadows or the so-called Child Catcher, who have been buried in dark places and had strange words whispered into their ears. I was highly sceptical of this theory for two reasons. One, it would imply a preposterous number of unreported child kidnappings. Two, biology simply doesn’t work that way.
PC: And was your debunking successful?
AC: Yes and no. We still don’t fully understand their methods of reproduction or their evolutionary lineage, but I found no evidence to support the Transformed Kid Theory. Though it is true that their behaviour has all the hallmarks of an immature and mischievous child.
PC: Such as?
AC: They seem to treat everything as play, from the building of defensive forts in the most unlikely of places, to the denting of human skulls with blunt instruments. They are most gregarious in nature though, and it is very rare to find a hobbe that isn’t part of a group.
PC: What of their famous penchant for appropriating human objects?
AC: Just like children enjoy aping adults, hobbes seem to derive unusual pleasure from mimicking humans. For instance, they not only like to use the weapons of their victims, they love to wear their clothes, whether these be pieces of armour or frilly dresses. They’ve also been known to wear pots and other utensils, suggesting they haven’t quite yet mastered the finer nuances of garment-usage.
PC: One of the more interesting points in your study is how hobbes appear to follow a rigid, military structure. Is this another case of them imitating human behaviour?
AC: That is my contention, yes. Strength and intelligence would seem to determine this hierarchy, with the weakest serving as grunts or footmen, and the strongest acting as higher-ranking officers. Very few hobbes have the presence to be leaders, and most will scatter in terror when they see their stronger members slain.
PC: And what would you say to those who claim their childlike antics make them cute, cuddly and deserving of our understanding?
AC: I would say they have never had one gnawing on their ribcage. Don’t forget that some have now learned to use advanced weapons such as crossbows and bombs. And, despite their primitive brains, they have a strong connection to the magical currents that run through this universe, allowing some to cast spells. So one would do well not to underestimate a hobbe.
Almost on cue, there is a loud thump as the cupboard door is banged from the other side, rattling the heavy lock.
PC: Umm. Mr Croddle? Do you have a hobbe locked in that cupboard?
AC: What cupboard?
PC: It's been a pleasure talking to you again. I look forward to our next meeting, as do our readers.
Trolls[]
Albion's leading newspaper is proud to present the third in a series of interviews with noted historian and monster expert Atticus Croddle. Investigative reporter Penelope Chumley speaks with the eccentric creaturologist.
Having grown accustomed to the abundance of oddities populating Mr Croddle's home, I don't immediately see what appears to be a brand-new feature: a thick, congealing pool of blood towards the back of his living room. It seeps from under the door of the small cupboard our more attentive readers will remember being padlocked on our previous visit.
PC: You seem to be losing a lot of blood.
AC: Oh, that? There’s a fault with the jam storage system.
PC: You keep jam in that cupboard?
AC: Yes.
PC: Not hobbes, or rotting corpses or perhaps some other unimaginable monstrosity?
AC: Just jam.
His unblinking stare bores into me. I move on.
PC: I thought today we could talk about trolls. What can you tell us about these rare and fantastical giants?
AC: Well, for a long time, Trolls were thought of as Nature’s way of letting us know it’s angry, but there is little scientific proof to back that up. What does seem clear is that, on occasion, by strange, unnatural means, areas of our world become imbued with consciousness. They rise out of the earth capable of thought, capable of movement, and capable of crushing a human being with one blow.
PC: If they really are products of Nature, how come they exhibit such human characteristics as legs, arms and eyes?
AC: It is a mystery as profound as our own existence. After all, who decided that we should have legs, arms and eyes? There are some who believe trolls were originally created by druids who made them in their own image. Others contend that Nature simply emulated the shape of the creatures it sought to annihilate.
PC: Fascinating. And are there particular parts of the world where this phenomenon arises?
AC: It would seem not. Nature simply does the best with the materials it has available. Thus, in a forest, one might expect to find a tree troll, all vines, bark and stone. In the mountains and caves, one is more likely to find rock trolls, whereas marshes are home to swamp trolls, and so on and so forth. What is common to all of them is their terrible, brute strength, their overwhelming territoriality and hostility, and their uncanny skill of throwing things at anyone who dares to get too close.
PC: Throwing things? Such as?
AC: Boulders mostly. Though, as with all of Nature, we’ve seen some evolution in how they attack those who cross their path. There have been reports of trolls spitting out vicious stinging insects, and some who are even capable of raising hollow men.
PC: How can anyone hope to survive an attack by such behemoths?
AC: Few do, but one must remember that Nature is not perfect and, as such, trolls can be defeated with enough guile and courage. I should know, I bested one myself once.
PC: Really?!
AC: I have the proof right here.
Mr Croddle reaches over to a nearby table and hands me a small plant pot with a clump of moss growing out of its soil.
PC: It looks like moss.
AC: It’s the scalp of a tree troll.
PC: Where's the rest of it?
AC: Well, of course, it was far too heavy to carry off. But I think that is a fine trophy nonetheless.
PC: The moss.
AC: Troll scalp.
As he snatches the plant pot away, a low, laboured moaning fills the room, as if some not-quite-dead-yet victim were trying to cling on to consciousness despite terrible pain and blood-loss. I glance at the cupboard.
PC: Mr Croddle, your jam is moaning.
AC: I look forward to your next visit Ms Chumley. I believe it will be your last one, yes?
Balverines[]
Albion's leading newspaper is proud to present the fourth, and last, in a series of interviews with noted historian and monster expert Atticus Croddle. Investigative reporter Penelope Chumley speaks with the eccentric creaturologist.
I arrive for my last interview with the fascinating and enigmatic Mr Croddle on a crisp, clear night. Standing outside the door, I can't escape the feeling that the garden gnomes peering out of the tall grass are watching me. Have they moved since I was last here? Before I can fully wonder whether this is a trick of the moonlight or if Mr Croddle has recently rearranged them, the door opens. My host seems much less agitated this time, and even hums a little tune as he leads me to the living room. My gaze immediately falls on the mysterious cupboard door and I'm surprised to find it wide open. Most of the interior is in shadow, but the floor looks clean of both blood and jam. There is, however, a set of heavy chains resting there.
My first nervous thought as we sit down: what has broken loose?
Penelope Chumley: Did you hear that?
Atticus Croddle: What’s that, my dear?
PC: It sounded like howling. In the distance.
AC: A mere trick of the mind. I think the subject of our final interview has unnerved you. Perhaps you would like a soothing cup of tea?
PC: That's all right. Tell me about werewolves.
AC: You mean balverines, surely?
PC: Of course, I'm sorry. Balverines.
AC: Werewolves are pure fiction. Balverines, on the other hand, are very real. They are the most pitiable and forlorn of all creatures, for they are men, cursed to change shape. To become rapacious beasts. To lose their humanity. To be consumed with a desire for death and flesh.
PC: Like werewolves.
AC: No, no! Balverines are completely different! They have no snouts. They are far less hairy. No one could ever confuse the two.
PC: If they're cursed humans, who did the cursing?
AC: Though we have no way of verifying it, the legend goes that a wholly beastly creature known as the Balvorn was the first to wound and infect a man, who then became the first balverine. Since then, the curse has passed down through generations, from bite to bite.
PC: That sounds a lot like wer-
AC: It’s nothing like that! Have you ever heard of a white werewolf? Of course not. Yet, the most fierce and feared balverine is the white balverine. Cursed on a full moon, even other balverines bow to its will.
PC: What can you tell us about their habits?
AC: They tend to form packs and attack in groups, pouncing on their victims from the shadows then jumping out of sight again. They are vicious and breathtakingly fast.
PC: Is it true they are susceptible to silver weapons, just like w-?
AC: Yes! Silver can indeed make the task of killing these beautiful creatures much easier. But fire is just as lethal. Those terrible, terrible flames…
As he says this, his gaze becomes lost in the lantern flickering on a nearby table.
PC: Well, I think that's all the questions I have. I want to thank you for your time and for sharing your knowledge over these past few weeks. I'll just let myself out.
AC: Wait. I thought, since you have expressed such curiosity about my jam cupboard in the past, you would like to step inside and take a closer look.
As I look into the shadows of the cupboard, taking, I will admit, one or two steps back towards the exit, there is a sudden burst of moonlight through the windows. It glints off the thick chains, which I see now are connected to manacles.
PC: I appreciate it, but I really should be leaving.
I look at Atticus Croddle, taking another step back. He seems transfixed by the moon, wisps of cloud still hanging to its edges.
AC: So beautiful, so majestic. Do you not hear its siren song, Ms Chumley?
The twitch in his eye confirms what I had long begun to suspect, and what many of our readers will have also begun to suspect, creating a sort of vortex of suspicion, or at the very least, the beginnings of one.
PC: I knew it. You're one of them, aren't you? You're a werewolf.
AC: I am not a werewolf! I’m a BALVER—
The word is lost in a terrifying roar as the most extraordinary transformation takes place before me. The weak, buttoned down body of Mr Croddle bursts out into a dark, snarling shape. It draws its monstrous head back and lets out a howl that curdles my blood, which I suspect will continue curdling until the day I die.
As the balverine begins to move towards me, I take out a silver dagger from my handbag, placed there for just such an eventuality. I close my eyes and hold it out, falling backwards on to the armchair I’ve been conducting all my interviews from. The balverine's claws miss my head by inches. The dagger slices into its chest and it recoils with another terrible howl. Before it can come back at me, I grab the lantern and throw it at its feet, where it smashes and sets the floor on fire. The flames take on a life of their own, forcing the balverine towards the cupboard where it has imprisoned who knows how many victims. For a moment, I think I can shove it into the small enclosure and lock it inside. But before I can react, the beast leaps through the window and into the night.
And that, dear readers, was how my series of interviews with Mr Atticus Croddle ended. The creaturologist hasn't been seen since. His home, heavily damaged by the fire, is being kept under guard, and who knows what grisly mysteries it still holds. As for me, I sleep with a silver dagger under my pillow. I suggest you do the same.
Coming soon: a new investigative series on the enigmatic and elusive seer Theresa! We speak to those who know her! Dig up dirt from her past! Uncover her secrets! Engage in idle gossip and scandalous speculation! Only in the Bowerstone Times!
Albion's Oldest Riddle: Theresa the Blind Seeress[]
Part 1: Chocolates in the Mud[]
Albion's leading newspaper presents the first part in a new series delving into the most enduring mystery of all: Theresa! Is this mythical soothsayer real? What has she been up to all these years? And how come she just won't die? Investigative reporter Penelope Chumley finds out.
It started off as one of those daft rumours traded among stall owners on Bowerstone Bridge: the reason King Logan had gone off his rocker was a visit from a blind woman who showed him the future. I dismissed it along equally preposterous reports, usually featured in rival publications, featuring such headlines as “I Married A Hobbe” or “Turnips Ate My Horse”.
But the more I looked into it, the more evidence of this woman emerged. She even had a name: Theresa. And it seemed she'd been doing this kind of thing longer than your average fairground psychic. About half a millennia in fact. Determined to get to the bottom of this, I began what turned into a fascinating and eye-opening journey into the history of Albion itself.
After my initial enquiries, I was put in touch with a group who not only believes in her fervently, but has built an obsessive cult around her. Perhaps “cult” is too sinister a word. “Fan club” would be more appropriate, as evidenced by the banner hoisted above their headquarters. It reads: “Theresa’s Fan Club”.
I was invited to attend their monthly gathering the following week, but first I met with Head Seer and club co-founder Bertie Knippet. Knippet's enthusiasm was infectious and, when he said he'd take me to the place Theresa was born almost six-hundred years ago, I couldn't help but share in his excitement.
We took a long and uncomfortable coach ride to the ominously named Wraithmarsh, once the site of the quaint little hamlet of Oakvale, supposed birthplace of the elusive seeress (Knippet insisted we use the feminine form of the noun at all times). During the journey, I was told of the horrific things people had seen in Wraithmarsh, such as hollow men and banshees, though Knippet insisted the Fan Club had made several pilgrimages over the years and only once suffered a fatal attack. No stranger to monsters myself (you may remember my recent encounter with a certain scholarly balverine), his tales failed to unnerve me.
As we walked around the funereal swamp, Knippet finally started to give me the good stuff. Theresa grew up in this area when it was still Oakvale, a peaceful farming community that was razed in a brutal bandit attack led by the infamous Jack of Blades over five hundred years ago. There's still some evidence of this in the few crumbling headstones that stand in commemoration of that terrible day. The only one I could make out featured the name Rosie, and I couldn't help but wonder if she'd been a friend of the young Theresa.
“Shame she wasn’t a seeress by then,” I said. “She might have been able to stop the whole thing.”
“Oh, but she was,” came Knippet's tremulous reply. When I asked him how he could possibly know, he produced a leather binder and extracted from it, with all the care one would take with the sacred relics of a saint, a couple of charred pieces of paper. “They cost me half my life’s savings, but they were worth it. They’re from Theresa’s childhood diary.” I read what appeared to be the last two entries:
"Harvest, Day 19 - I had another dream. I was opening birthday presents and I was so happy. Then something happened, and it was so horrible it woke me up. I think that part was only a dream though.
Harvest, Day 21 - It's my birthday today! I bet my brother forgets again, but at least mother will be back. I got up early to look out over the sea, and now I'm going to play in the top field."
“And you think this dream was a prophecy of the bandit raid?” I asked Knippet.
“Of course. She saw the whole thing the night before. She was just too young to realise. And then, when she was celebrating her birthday, it happened. Let me show you something.”
He led me then to a secluded piece of swamp and, for a moment, I thought one of the creatures said to inhabit this place was standing before us. Even after I realised it was only a scarecrow, I couldn't help but remember tales of hollow men who'd adopted this disguise. But how many hollow men would put flowers and boxes of chocolate at their feet? This, Knippet told me, was a shrine left on the Fan Club's previous visit. Theresa had stood by a scarecrow much like this one as a small child, holding her birthday chocolates. Her last moment of innocence before the bandits came and stole her away, blinding her in the process. I don't mind telling you, seeing those flowers wilting over soggy, mouldy chocolate boxes sent a shiver down my spine.
On the coach ride back, Knippet told me what he knew about the events following the raid. Theresa's brother, according to some sources at least, grew up to become the legendary Hero who defeated Jack of Blades, possibly out of revenge for the attack. As for Theresa, she grew up among bandits, developing her clairvoyance and fighting skills. Little is known of her whereabouts after she left them, only that she was somehow involved in Jack of Blades’ demise years later. “But that,” Knippet says, “can wait until you come to our Club’s gathering next week. We’re doing re-enactments!”
In the next issue: How did Theresa become immortal? We speculate on the seeress's “missing years”, with the help of her fan club and a few guests! Does Reaver know all her secrets? Find out, only in The Bowerstone Times!
Part 2: Oddballs, Moles, and Bats[]
Albion's leading newspaper presents the second part in a new series delving into the most enduring mystery of all: Theresa! Is this mythical soothsayer real? What has she been up to all these years? And how come she just won't die? Investigative reporter Penelope Chumley finds out.
I'd come to the Theresa Fan Club's bi-monthly gathering to witness a series of re-enactments of her life, and expecting to find a collection of weirdos and fringe cases. Instead, I found a respectable cross-section of Albion's society: shopkeepers, farmers, government officials and nobles among them. Let me tell you, nothing quite compares to stepping into a hired festival hall and seeing fourteen such people dressed in robes, blindfolds and wigs.
Bertie Knippet, the club's co-founder, was busy overseeing the re-enactments, so I was guided round the room by Wendy, a bright young woman carrying a large, fake hammer. At least half of those present were wearing non-Seer costumes, the most striking being a man in a harlequin suit and a mask. He could be no other than Jack of Blades, and he took centre stage during the first historical recreation.
It was a scene some of you may be familiar with, for it has passed into legend, though many of the details remain unclear: the moment the Hero of Oakvale slew the human form of Jack of Blades. From what I'd read, the Hero killed Jack and saved his sister Theresa by giving up the immensely powerful Sword of Aeons. That, according to the club, may not be entirely so. In this version at least, it was Theresa who saved the day. Just when Jack was about to extinguish the life of the exhausted Hero, Theresa rose to the occasion and lobbed off his head with a roundhouse kick. The accuracy of this depiction might be suspect, but here it raised an almighty cheer.
We then moved on to the second big re-enactment, of a moment I'm told occurred some five-hundred years later. Wendy joined the stage, as Hammer, one of the Heroes gathered by Theresa to defeat Lucien, the man who constructed the colossal Spire. On a clear day, one can still see this tower in the distance, so I was eager to see what happened there. According to the club, it was this:
The Heroes Reaver, Garth and Hammer were trapped in the Spire by Lucien, who was using them to power the magical structure and destroy our world. When all looked lost, the Hero of Bowerstone (known to some as Sparrow) walked in, ready to save the day, but instead tripped on a small shard of rock and fell flat on his face. It was then that Theresa appeared and knocked off Lucien's head with a roundhouse kick. As a prize, the Heroes told her she could keep the Spire, which she then used to grant them all wishes and make the world a better place.
As Wendy walked over to me, beaming after her role in the night's proceedings, I couldn't help but query her. “Wait a minute,” I said. “If that happened five hundred years after the other thing, what happened in between? How did Theresa become immortal?” It turned out pretty much everyone in the room had a different theory. Some claimed she found a philosopher's gallstone, whose magical properties endowed her with long life. Some believed it was a divine gift that demonstrated her sainthood. By far the most prevalent theory, though, was the one saying she'd travelled to another planet, where a mighty alien race of intelligent moss, realising how much good she could do with her predictive powers, ensured that she would never die before returning her back to Albion.
It wasn't until the evening was coming to a close, over tea, scones and divination games, that I was approached by one of the few men wearing a Theresa costume who hadn't yet revealed his full face. “Come with me if you want to know the truth about Theresa,” he whispered. Once outside, he told me he was a mole within the Theresa Fan Club, and was actually a member of B.A.T.S. – Bowerstone's Anti-Theresa Society, an organization who believed the blind seeress was Albion's hidden dictator, manipulating individuals and events to suit her own nefarious plans.
The mole, still wearing his costume, and attracting not a few odd looks, led me to the B.A.T.S. secret headquarters. Though its exterior appearance indicated an abandoned slum (possibly a factory in another time), inside it was as resplendent as a royal palace. Black velvet lined the walls and golden chandeliers hung above. “I’ll take you to Albion’s secret library,” he said, “where we keep all the documents telling the truth about Theresa.” We walked down a corridor lined with paintings of the soothsayer in rather compromising and, in some cases, illegal positions.
“And if you still need convincing”, he added, “I’ll take you to meet our founder and benefactor.”
“And who’s that?”
“I like to call him His Flawless, Exalted Magnificence, but most people know him as Reaver.”
In the next issue: Finally we reveal the truth! For realsies. Only in The Bowerstone Times!
Part 3: Reaver is a Very Nice Man[]
Albion's leading newspaper presents the third and final part in a series delving into the most enduring mystery of all: Theresa! Is this mythical soothsayer real? What has she been up to all these years? And how come she just won't die? Investigative reporter Penelope Chumley finds out.
A shiver ran down my spine, bounced off my buttocks and squirrelled its way down my designer shoes, curling my toes. I was standing in the secret headquarters of B.A.T.S. (Bowerstone's Anti-Theresa Society), having been led here by a shadowy individual who'd promised to show me evidence of Theresa's corrupting influence on our world. The man had brought me to a dark, almost ritualistic room, part-library, part-museum. Ancient documents lay under glass cases, books lined the walls, objects stood on pedestals.
I opened one of the books, titled Arcane Politics: Albion Ruled from the Shadows. Along chapters on the old Heroes' Guild (which it seems had once tried to overrun the world until the people rose against it) and a secret plot to alter the personal habits of all Albionites using doctored prune juice, there was one on Theresa. It claimed she was responsible for an outbreak of hiccups that completely spoiled the Oakfield Apple-Bobbing Festival that year. I skimmed through a few other books, finding similar accounts of the seeress's pernicious influence: she caused the storm that flooded all the basements in what had then been called the Bowerstone Slums; she raised the global temperature by one degree, making everyone sweat just that little bit more in the summer; she plotted the extinction of almost all domestic animals, which explained why dogs were so rare and nobody remembered seeing a cat in a really, really long time... The accusations went on.
Turning my attention to the museum pieces, I noticed a copy of Theresa's fire-damaged birth certificate. It listed her father as Brom and her mother as Scarlet Robe, but her date of birth had been erased by flames. Slightly less authentic-looking was a sealed document titled How I Plan to Take Over the World, by Theresa. Unfortunately, the objects around these documents had little in the way of explanation, so I was forced to speculate on her connection to such items as a spoon, a boot and a music box key. More intriguing still was a ripped dog collar.
“Is this supposed to prove her part in exterminating most cats and dogs from Albion? Or did she have a dog of her own?"
There was no reply so I turned around in search of my guide to find the room empty and the door closed. I'd been so engrossed in my research, I hadn't noticed him leave. I rattled the door knob. It was locked.
"Don't worry, my sweet, I'm merely ensuring our privacy." It was Reaver, who had somehow appeared behind me. "And that," he added, nodding at the collar, "belonged to the beloved pet of a great Hero I once knew. Theresa arranged for the poor beast to be shot, indirectly of course, always indirectly, just to stir the fires of vengeance in that Hero’s bosom."
I found it hard to speak at first. I'd heard enough stories about Reaver to send that shiver nestling in my shoes clear around the world. He was also extraordinarily handsome. At least in the poor light of the room.
"How—how do you know?" I managed to mumble.
"Why, my dear, I was there! I'm sorry to say I too was taken in by this machiavellian harpy. She tricked me, forced me, to assist her in one of her many ruses to alter the course of history. I saw through her in the end though. That is why I made it my life's work to expose her. Come. Sit."
He drew out a chair and pulled on a candle-holder attached to the wall. A recess opened to reveal a tray with a bottle of brandy and two glasses. We sat. He poured. He spoke. And what a marvellous tale it was, told with the skill of a seasoned, charismatic raconteur. So marvellous I can hardly do it justice, but here is the gist:
Full of courage and righteous anger, Reaver went on a long trek around the world, not only to uncover Theresa's treacheries, but to find out how she had become immortal. He began by investigating the Court of Shadows, since he'd heard that some people had attained immortality by making nefarious deals with them. In fact, he even thought she might be a member of the Court herself. It was clear, however, that even the Court shied away from her monstrous schemes. It was not they who had unleashed the Theresa curse on future generations.
After years of following the trail of chaos she'd left in her wake and interrogating various people, Reaver finally made a breakthrough. There was a hermit in a remote mountain-top who had once taken Theresa in shortly after the events with Jack of Blades. Reaver braved the elements and climbed the mountain in search of further clues. He found more than that. He found the hermit himself, a pitiable creature, more skeleton than man, who called himself Scythe.
Scythe had been a Hero himself, long ago, perhaps since the beginning of time itself, for he had mastered the secrets of death, and used this power to protect Albion through the centuries. But, exhausted after millennia of such toil, he could go on no longer. It was in this state that Theresa found him, and convinced him to share his secret so that she might continue the work he'd started. And thus was Albion doomed.
There it was. The truth of Theresa's longevity. I took a sip of brandy to calm my nerves and asked Reaver a question that had been burning in my mind:
"Aren't you—I mean, you're immortal too, right? You've been around so long, and still look so..."
"Handsome? Vigorous? It's all down to a good diet, plenty of exercise and a jolly large amount of lovemaking. At least I have always been content to look as I have. Theresa on the other hand, if you can believe this, has actually had some work done. The old hag wanted to make herself look younger. Tsk! The nerve!"
He stood up and opened the door.
"Now, Ms Chumley. Go forth and enlighten your readers. I'm certain you will do your profession proud."
I walked out into the night, a little more afraid of the dark forces working against us, but grateful and blessed to have been in the company of such a wonderful and benevolent soul. I hope, dear readers, you will always think of him that way, and remember who the real cause of all your troubles is: Theresa.
P.S. Mr Reaver, I hope this article meets with your approval and that my parents, whom you so kindly allowed to stay in your alligator pit after their house mysteriously burned down, will now be able to leave.