Limtrot slowly made his way down the tunnel toward the cavern. As he entered a booming voice echoed "Who dare disturb my slumber!"

It was a dark and stormy night with a faint fog strolling in. A large castle stands on a plateau overlooking a small village called LIMTROT. The village was named after its most famous idiot who had escaped the bounds of his serfdom and become the Lord of the castle above...in his rule he had quite a few setbacks...this is his story...it was on a night like this that the villagers needed more protection. Raiders had been coming in there once a week taking money from them so the Raiders wouldn't burn the gardens and buildings. Limtrot had gotten word from the village and knew there were only a few young males capable to fight. He acquired a messenger to go to the next village (not in his jurisdiction) to post a sign asking for men to protect his village. But a raider had been calabanting among the bars and saw the sign and took this information back to the Raider leader Malatan who was in a rage after that.

"I am terribly vexed." Malatan stated sternly. Lorg, one of his most trusted aids sheepishly approached Malatan and spoke "I beg your pardon sire but that turn of phrase has already been used." Malatan eyes narrowed with great consternation then after a great pause he uttered "Then I am quite peeved." Lorg nodded slightly with approval. "So, Malatan continued, the Great Fool thinks he can outmaneuver me and fortify his village. Lorg, fetch me my horse and sword. I will have the pleasure of defeating this stupid Lord. With about twenty raiders,Malatan could not penetrate the castle for lord Limtrot had no gate or windows. He had a secret passage that only he knew of.

Limtrot's castle was once a Monastery and the monks had laid dead monks down there. If a Blizzard had not wiped them out they would still be there. Legend began growing the castle was haunted, but Limtrot showed no care when he moved into it. Little did Limtrot know that the Castle was REALLY haunted and that Malatan had the only amulet that would guarantee safety from the dark powers that now inhabited the abandoned monastery. Legend had it that there had once been a mad monk who dwelled there and after practicing forbidden rites from forbidden tombs, his arcane had unleashed an evil that had killed all the other monks and himself as well. Malatan had dug the amulet from the lone survivor’s tomb. The monk who had snatched the amulet from his crazed brother and fled while the ill-fated man was in turn devoured by his creation. Malatan did not even know that the amulet he won while beating a blacksmith at cards was powerful. How did the Blacksmith get it from the surviving Monk?

Malatan, while being a natural battlefield commander and an even more brilliant tactician, has shown to be a bit addle-minded of late. He needs to be reminded from time to time that the amulet he won from the blacksmith is indeed a well-crafted forgery of the amulet Malatan would later obtain from the traitor monk's tomb. The slight head wound which Malatan had received from walking into a doorframe throbbed as the dizziness began to subside...he remembered his plan...he'd gotten the real amulet and duped the fool blacksmith into making a duplicate...conning the fake from him and not having ta pay for it was part of the fun....he'd wear the fake copy around his neck openly and pretend great safeguards around it...while the true amulet he wore around his wrist, hidden in a steel gauntlet, magic in itself. The gauntlet gave its wielder the power tocatch thrown spears or javelins in the air, and cast them back at their owner with 3 times its original force...he knew that the gloves worked on daggers and sling stones as well. The Gauntlet of Theragon which adorns Malatan's wrist was believed by ancient lore to have been created by Bruvaire, the Blacksmith to the God's themselves. The Gauntlet was not meant for Malatan's world and carries with it a great curse to any mortal who wears it. The curse carries with it random temporary bouts of feeble-mindedness, loss of equilibrium, and short-term memory loss as well as not to mention clumsiness when not in battle.

The raiders had to stay overnight in a barn of a deserted farm. The put the horses next to a well, over Malatan almost fell and his leather bag fell on the ground and with a sprinkle sprinkle sound the amulet found the ground... ehmm, not the ground but the stoneformation the well was made from.... and *sprinkle *sprinkle... fell into the deep..."NO!!!!!!"Malatan shouted.. trying to grasp it.. but... it was too late! The amulet fell into the deep, deep well..what a clumsy man, we can tell! Poor Malatan. Malatan cursed and then realized that it was the fake that he had dropped...for the real one was still tied to his wrist. Meanwhile, Lorg his aide got out the rope. It would be a long climb down", thought Lorg.

Meanwhile, Limtrot, the Dimrot(as they called him as a boy), idiot of the people had men lined up by a the river Elgar waiting to sign forms. Out of the woods roamed Malatan with his sword and 50 raiders. Limtrot stood in horror as he watched all but a few brave men scatter to the winds. Then from the mayhem approached a pale, hooded figure who spoke in a very solemn tone. He asked....dost thou have a pen, Mr. Limtrot? A look of befuddlement washed over Limtrot's face. It was a look that his people had become all too familiar with. Limtrot then snapped out of his gaze, reached into his sash & retrieved a quill. "Perfect." The stranger purred as he grasped the quill from Limtrot's hand & said, "What man shall fight beside me against these hoodlums? About 15 ran towards the Raiders with swords, one had a pitchfork another was brave enough to pull a raider off his horse and kicked him hard in the gut, another had a bow and arrow. An aura of terror seemed to surround the Hooded figure...In a muttering, barely audible, voice he spoke briefly before both sides fled him in utter panic and fear,"I am a special agent for the IRS."

"The IRS!" Limtrot snapped as even he could remember the old stories of how they were the true protectors of the realm. Long forgotten by history, their kind had supposedly vanished. Their services eventually became obsolete as peace reigned supreme throughout the land for many years ... until now. "What a powerful ally to have," Limtrot thought to himself, "but at what cost would this Old Guard come?" Limtrot's answer would come all too soon. The Old Guard wanted the powerful Amulet from Malatan. "Amulet!!?? What Amulet" begged Limtrot. "You see," spoke the agent," The monks ran a non-taxable business while they remained there," as he pointed to the castle. "Now the castle lays unclaimed and must revert back to the government..along with all the spoils....er...revenue that needs to be liquidated for the purposes of back taxes on the property. They stopped making exemption claims so therefore they are no longer exempt." At this the man grinned wickedly and was probably mentally rubbing his hands together at the thought of prime real estate prices."consider the amulet part of the estate." Limtrot began to wonder what the king could possibly want from such a ruin. Especially haunted as it was...briefly pretending to pay attention as the man rambled about whether demons and ghosts were squatters or illegal residents...The Inter-realm revenue service had a category even for dead bodies it seemed..."and a fine for each unburied dead body on the premises (health code violation you see) and another for unpaid death tax...." the old man seemed definitely sparkling...Limtrot wished he had a profession that made him so happy instead of getting pelted with rancid tomatoes.

He had tried to be a Fletcher once...but the feathers he had used were too big and he kept bending the arrows when he tried to put the arrow heads on...he had tried to be a shepherd, but we won't go into what happened there. "And that is the complete history of the monks, the amulet, and your castle." the agent finished. The silence broke Limtrot's train of thought as he realized he had hardly heard a word that the agent had spoken. The agent sensed this as he noticed the vague expression on Limtrot's face. Frustration now began to boil within the agent as he began to search through the satchel of w2s he carried with him....trying to see if he had a copy of one from Limtrot..."let's see, he muttered, "Malatan, Lorg, peter, Paul and Mary....." Then THWACK! A pitchfork skewers itself through the strong of the agent's back. As what little color seems to drain from the agent's face he falls to his knees and scowls at Limtrot with his last breath and says, “you filled the forms out all wrong...*gasp* I've never seen them so badly done...what did you ...write them with?...can you even read....?”

"So what worry was the IRS now?" thought Limtrot "unless another agent was sent out. Soon he paid more attention to the battle going on. About 5 volunteers died. He hid under the signing table as he saw Malatan approach. As Limtrot cowered under the table he looked over at the prone, lifeless agent. He noticed that the agent was clutching a leather satchel. Limtrot quickly scampered over to the agent, grasped the satchel from his bone-white hands and scurried back under the table. As Limtrot opened the satchel he could not believe what he saw. A treasure map leading into the catacombs of the Limtrot Castle. Ahha"scoffed Limtrot. The IRS agent was a liar, all he had Limtrot was a scam to get his land and castle. While Malatan came closer Limtrot ran till he fell in the river. Lucky the satchel was waterproof. Yet he found out he couldn't swim. As he sunk he found an underwater cave that he quickly swam (The best he could till he came up into an air pocket. To his amazement he found a cave with walls covered in silver flouresant paint and saw a light down the tunnel. It opened up to a big cavern.

As Limtrot cowered under the table he looked over at the prone, lifeless agent. He noticed that the agent was clutching a leather satchel. Limtrot quickly scampered over to the agent, grasped the satchel from his bone-white hands and scurried back under the table. As Limtrot opened the satchel he could not believe what he saw.

Then THWACK! A pitchfork skewers itself through the strong of the agent's back. As what little color seems to drain from the agent's face he falls to his knees and scowls at Limtrot with his last breath and says ...

sheppherd, but we won't go into what happened there. "and that is the complete history of the monks, the amulet, and your castle." the agent finished. The silence broke Limtrot's train of thought as he realized he had hardly heard a word that the agent had spoken. The agent sensed this as he noticed the vague expression on Limtrot's face. Frustration now began to boil within the agent as he ...

"What a powerful ally to have," Limtrot thought to himself, "but at what cost would this Old Guard come?" Limtrot's answer would come all too soon.

"The IRS!" Limtrot snapped as even he could remember the old stories of how they were the true protectors of the realm. Long forgotten by history, their kind had supposedly vanished. Their services eventually became obsolete as peace reigned supreme throughout the land for many years ... until now.

A look of befuddlement washed over Limtrot's face. It was a look that his people had become all too familiar with. Limtrot then snapped out of his gaze, reached into his sash & retreived a quill. "Perfect." The stranger purred as he grasped the quill from Limtrot's hand & said ...

Limtrot stood in horror as he watched all but a few brave men scatter to the winds. Then from the mayhem approached a pale, hooded figure who spoke in a very solemn tone.

The curse carries with it random temporary bouts of feeble-mindedness, loss of equilibrium, and short term memory loss as well as...

The Gauntlet of Theragon which adorns Malatan's wrist was believed by ancient lore to have been created by Bruvaire, the Blacksmith to the God's themselves. The Gauntlet was not meant for Malatan's world and carries with it a great curse to any mortal who wears it.

Malatan, while being a natural battlefield commander and an even more brilliant tactician, has shown to be a bit addle-minded of late. He needs to be reminded from time to time that the amulet he won from the blacksmith is indeed a well crafted forgery of the amulet Malatan would later obtain from the traitor monk's tomb.

"I am terribly vexed." Malatan stated sternly. Lorg, one of his most trusted aids sheepishly approached Malatan and spoke "I beg your pardon sire but that turn of phrase has already been used." Malatan eyes narrowed with great consternation then after a great pause he uttered "Then I am quite peeved." Lorg nodded slightly with approval. "So, Malatan continued, the Great Fool thinks he can outmaneuver me and fortify his village. Lorg, fetch me ...