(Also Titled: The Ongoing Diary of Thppgrg, Goblin Minion)

Hey, reader! Yeah, you. There are more parts to this. You’ll want to read those first! See that tag at the bottom that says Thppgrg? Click on it if you’re new to this diary. Otherwise, you can go here for Part 3 and do this the hard way (by backtracking). And if you’ve been keeping up: Good on you! (Art by Chris McFann.)

DAY FIFTEEN

Monday. Blech.

DAY SIXTEEN

A day of mixed emotions.

Good news: Racist ghost quite possibly permanently dead now, after being shot repeatedly with incredibly useful undead-disrupting spell, directly in his stupid ghost-face; also, skeletons of level one have been replaced, and security of strategically important fountain-slash-bedroom has improved significantly. Dark Lord Torkelheim still around.

Bad news: Said Dark Lord apparently gone completely, feverishly, eyebrow-bitingly insane. Now wandering the halls of the dungeon in an unbelted bathrobe, heavily worn and mismatched balor-themed bedroom slippers, and a few faded-pink hair curlers strapped to his skull, carrying only a cracked “World’s Most Evil Grandma” coffee mug reeking of powerful poison, and plenty of it. My guess—from the discursive ramblings emanating in a near-constant stream from oily, unshaven, visibly unhinged boss—is that he might be suffering from self-diagnosed “edition-change-related super-villain anxiety” and is medicating heavily.

Was not previously aware of boss’s specific preference for triple-distilled, single malt Northlander whiskey and rotten unicorn hearts, consumed swiftly and in exceptionally large quantities; will need to remember that for next performance review.

On topic of upcoming performance review: Torkelheim does not appear to recall hiring me.

Again, have mixed emotions regarding this development: Dark Lord not overly (or even observably) upset about extensive magical damage to Sigvald’s room; Dark Lord also not willing to pay me anything extra as recompense for hastily improvised story about how I courageously fended off fraternity of drunken, aggressive first-year wizarding students from remote, little-known ‘Thppgr University of Magic & Such-Like,’ out on the prowl for an inconspicuous dungeon in which to have raging toga-keggers and play their dub-step music at inappropriate volume.

In fact, Dark Lord has—as of yet—failed to pay me anything at all.

Vanished, cackling, in a gout of shadow-flame when pressed about payment.

Feeling unappreciated at work. Book on dwarven relationship advice contains no fewer than three separate chapters on such difficulties; fear my hypothetical dwarven marriage might be in trouble.

DAY SEVENTEEN

Resolved not to let my boss’s madness or my own relationship difficulties stop me any longer from living the life I was born to lead. I am the only dwarf who can stand in my own way; the only dwarf who can bar my passage to a better me.

Feeling really positive.

Have finished the book of dwarven relationship advice, filled out the self-confidence contract in the back, and posted it publicly in Sigvald’s room. Have sent away for book of dwarven humor available from same publisher; might be just the pick-me-up I needed.

Excited and dutiful to allow six to eight business days for delivery; am trustful, earnest, and forthright that I will have accrued significant funds to pay for book upon aforementioned delivery.

Redecorating; designing exciting handmade invitations to long-overdue strategically important poker night for myself, Jimbo, and Neil.

Strongly considering making some posters and posting them around to invite newcomers to our little soiree.

DAY EIGHTEEN

Poker-poster-plan scrapped.

Strategically important poker night should remain an intimate and friends-only gathering, attended exclusively by specific invitation. Meeting new people, however, still important—am now planning a large, dungeon-wide box social that will be open to all.

Currently hunting for glitter—or undead-and-rat-gunk-based glitter-substitute—for use on posters. Will need to make many of them. Must remember to ask Neil if any of his acid-spitting giant spider friends are DJs; seems to stand to reason that having that many legs would make them good DJs.

ALSO: Have resolved that I am worth it, to myself, to claim what is mine by dwarven birthright.

Am now sleeping in Sigvald’s old room.

No—scratch that. Am now sleeping in MY new room.

DAY NINETEEN

Oops. Apparently, it is racist for me to assume that acid-spitting giant spiders are good at being DJs. Neil and his family have formally dis-invited me from dinner, and he might not be attending strategically important poker night any more.

Jimbo has assured me that he, for one, will still be attending poker night.

Having trouble sleeping in Sigvald’s room. Might have incorrectly arcane-bonded myself to his bedspread.

DAY TWENTY

Holy crap. So, apparently, Sigvald had a long-distance, secret half-elf girlfriend.

Was woken unceremoniously by amorous young woman calling herself Shae-Shae Snuggle-Bunny-Boo-Boo-Pie; was nearly killed swiftly thereafter by startled, heavily armed, and quite irate adventuring ranger named Shaendralya, Daughter of Thunder on Distant Mountains, Slayer of the Unclean.

Impressed even myself with sheer volume of swiftly, expertly crafted lies that led to young woman storming off in a huff with a promise to return and give Sigvald a “talking to.” Unfortunately, might have told more lies than I am able to remember clearly.

Am now, it seems, embroiled in series of ever-escalating, wacky romantic misunderstandings.

Just what I needed. He said, both angrily and sarcastically.