1. Added information from the Monster vault. Threats to the Nenetir Vale and the Dungeon master's kit boxed sets. 
2. Provided evidence on where to put the height of the Nerath Empire.
3. Adjusted the date of the Saruun Khel civil war.
4. Revamped the chronology; it's now presented in a table containing the events and their dates in two simple reckonings: years considering the Nerath Empire and years considering the present day.

TBP: Be evil? I don't wanna be evil. That sux bigtime.
DM: *dizzy from the anticlimactic remark and from being pulled out of character all of a sudden* Huh?
TBP: Yeah, I don't play to be evil, I play to be an adventurer, be good, and save the world. What you're trying to pull here is epic BS.
DM: Well, I told you before making characters that my adventure was for evil characters and you all said it was ok.
TBP: Whatever. I'm not gonna be evil.
DM: *in character as the demon* If thou not do as I command, thou shall experience suffering before death! *as DM* The runic tattoos begin to glow with a reddish hue and you feel excrutiating pain in you whole body and some kind of spiritual ache, as if your soul was being rent.
TBP: Screw you, [here goes the name of the DM]! I'd rather die.
DM: *showing the first signs of annoyment* He can control you through the tattoos...
TPB: *smirking mockingly* Well then, you play my character then.

• [DM:] "You manage to catch the dark paladins unaware: surprise round!" [P1:] "Cool! Imma charge the closest fellow!" [DM:] "Ok, you take your whole first turn to get there." [P1:] "Huh? I said 'charge', not approach; why would I waste an ambush approaching?" [DM:] "Doesn't matter: the dark palaidn is out of range for your charge. You approach instead." [P1:] "How far is that creep?" [DM:] "About 50 ft." [P1:] "Well, my speed is 30 feet, and when charging, I can move at twice my speed, so, imma charge the closest fellow!" [DM:] "Ok, you take your whole first turn to get there." [All:] *sigh*
• [DM:] "The orc attacks you, A. Crit! 10d12 damage. You dropped? Then the orc cleaves B over there." [P2:] "Err... The orc can't cleave me, I'm about 10 ft. across, even if he takes a 5-foot step, he can't reach." [DM:] "Crit! 10d12 damage!" [P2:] "Are you listening? He can't cleave me!" [DM:] "10d12 damage." [P2:] "He'd drop me, but since he cannot cleave me, that's..." [DM:] "You drop? Sweet! He great cleaves C over there... Crit! 10d12 damage, please." [P3:] "Dude, I'm a wizard: I never stand closer than 100 ft. from the skirmish line." [DM:] "I.SAID.10.D.12.DAMAGE.PLEASE. Gosh! I'm sick and tired of everyone questioning the DM's decisions!"

The lack of grid also gave the wierd feeling that every melee attacker was ganging around the enemy while casters unleashed bolts without harming anyone in the way. Point is, combat without a grid leaves some amount of uneasyness, a feeling that everything is arbitrary, ambiguous, and subject to tricky interpretation. In the worst case scenario, it can disrupt the entire session (and this happend a lot with the guy in question). I didn't want this, so I hopped on a quest to get a nice gridded mat.

Obviously, I needed something I could write on an erase easily. I remembered those nice laminated gridded maps by Chessex. I went online and tried to get one, but for some reason Chessex products are seldom shipped to my country. I then figured I might find some options at some fancy stationery store. I found some graduated folding whiteboards meant for writing with dry erase pens, but the graduation was in centimeters. I guessed I could mark every 2.5 cm and go from there, but looking at the price, I figured I'd rather make my own... Heeeey... Make my own? I'm game!

So, instead of buying the fancy, but kinda useless laminated folding whiteboard with graduation, I went to a neighborhood stationery store and bought some shreds of transparent plastic. The kind you use to wrap your books' covers for elementary school (at least in this country; I find I'm not sure if they do this anyplace else). I then got home, grabbed a pile of used print paper (not entirely used: one side had to be blank, duh), my precision ruler, a red ink pen, and got to work.

I began making small marks along the borders of a paper sheet, one inch apart. Once all four sides were marked, I put the ruler across the sheet, making the marks meet and drew a single line connecting both points. Then I turned the paper 90 degrees and did the same. On with another sheet. I ended up using twelve sheets of paper, which I then put together with scotch tape, paying special attention to the continuity of the lines. I turned the whole thing over and pasted a sheet of thin cardstock on it to make it more rigid. I then pondered maybe it would be too big for my playing table and cut some squares off, along with some imperfections to make the edges as straight as possible (I lack surgical precision). Finally, I got a 21x25 grid. Next, I wrapped it with the plastic, bound it with more tape from behind, and, TA-DAH! I gots myself a handcrafted battle grid!

Here, take a look:

 
As you can see, the plastic is a bit loose, but it still serves it purpose. If you ever try to do it yourself, take into account that you'll have to loosen the plastic after a few days: with time, it shrinks a bit and bends the paper/cardstock (usually backwards), so you'll have to remove whatever material you used to bind the plastic (I used scotch tape), so don't bind it like there's no tomorrow.

Finally, here's the handcrafted grid with some minis and a very simple map drawn on it:

• (Poor Kemet faces the wrath of a Beholder. Will the Angel of Valor help him or smite him as well? D:   If you look closely, you can see the used side of the sheets I employed in the grid)

Because the plastic is a bit loose, the lines drawn with pen raise a bit over, but it's not a big deal in the heat of battle. After the combat is over, you can wipe it clean with a dry eraser, some cloth, your shirt or your hand if you're in a hurry. The only problem I've not been able to solve is that whenerver somebody places a hand or something heavy, the lines drawn over the plastic blur, get smeared, or erased. I can only advise to be a bit careful. My players got used to that in a while.

So, all in all, I can't complain. It was cheap and works nicely. Sometimes I need a larger one for specially big environments, so I think I'll make another one.

I'll let you know how that goes.

• Rejection for D&D 4.0, as far as I know, was astoundingly big in Mexico. Most geeks wouldn't part from their boring 3.5 munchkins.
• There's no real official retailer for WotC in Distrito Federal (one of the seven stores in the Locator holds D&D Encounters). The only strong WotC product in Mexico is Magic: the Gathering and we used to have some sort official synod (Necrotower), but around the time I retired from Magic, there had been serious trouble with Necrotower for circling new cards before their release (rumor has it). I don't know if WotC is too picky granting licence for its products, but it's clear that D&D has no official standing here.
• Tabletop RPGs are still being played by too few people. Unlike TCGs and VGs, the TTRPG world is still arguably unknown. There are few consistent players, and almost none among children: most regulars are young adults who started playing in the 90s, where support for tabletop RPGs was somehow greater (I wonder how much importance Vampire: the masquerade had in that fact), but many have retired (for a lack of places to play and less people to play with).
• That way, the tabletop RPG world is very little known, and since there are few official D&D stores, we get almost no events like D&D Encounters and the like, which doesn't help in getting the word around and without official support and without a measurable size market, retailers don't pick this business and expand it.
• A big problem is Mexican RPGamers not buying material. Most people download PDF versions of the books and go from there. This doesn't encourage stores to include D&D (or more D&D) in their catalogues (but with the availability problems of products and the prices, one can't really take sides).
• World economy being in the toilet also takes its toll on the problem: many hobby stores had gone bankrupt and disappeared. Imp Comics (formerly one of the big strongholds for RGP) focuses almost entirely on Warhammer now. Manga & Rol (formerly Mundo Comic's), the best place to get RPG stuff I've seen around, has been out of business for a while now. Arelquín (another great hobby shop) also left all of a sudden.

–Mara omentië! –greeted I, as cheerfully as I could.

–Huh? –uttered the children as they turned around to face me, and their expressions  filled with something very close to a sickened fear-, Sick! –quoth one of them.

–Nan Kemet, ma nal neri? –asked I, taken aback from their disgust.

–Dat tiny disgustin’ stranger speaksa funny fashon. Let’s git outta ‘ere. –quoth the one who seems to be their leader; all of them followed and left.

Confused, I wandered off to the river. I could not understand their aversion and why did they not answer my questions. Maybe my words were not correct, but… Wait! I ran back to the sign in front of the smithy and read it out loud again: “Theldortan’s Arms”. Of course! Silly foreigner! The sign was in Common language! I foolishly approached the children in Elvish! If they were human, it was only natural they did not understand my inquiries. Hmm… So by the time I got to Fallcrest I already knew Elvish… It poses more questions than it answers.

That solved the lack of communication issue, but the matter of disgust remained. I could not believe it would be because of my low stature: today I stand three feet and eight inches (quite tall for a gnome), but back then I must have measured three feet or so. That is not grounds for sickened rejection, is it? Shuffling these thoughts, I came back to the river shore and distractedly gazed on its surface and suddenly understood: I was all filthy, my reddish hair all scrambled (and that is saying a lot for a gnome), my face full of soot, dried sweat, some scratches and what seemed like a few droplets of blood, and my skin, of a mahogany wood-like hue did not help to look tidier. I was clad in a very ragged robe and dirty with what unmistakably were blood stains; a worn leather belt clung to my waist, my legs were no cleaner than my face or arms and a pair of thrashed sandals were tied to my feet. Not a pleasant sight indeed.

I leaned over the river, cleaned my hands and began washing my face, wondering what would I do next in that unknown town, when I heard gruff voices behind me.

–Lookit dat, brah, ae lonely brat’s using da rivah’s water whivout permish’n!

–Ya speaka truth, brattah, what we gonna do?

I turned around and saw two halflings about three feet and twelve inches high, greasy hair, round noses, a filthy, heavy cloak on their shoulders, padded armbands, bandaged leather gauntlets, worn garments, dirty, patched pantaloons, and leather boots with hide strips tied around as legwarmers. One of them caressed the pommel of some weapon in a scabbard hanging from his waist.

–Who are you? –inquired I, as calm as I could force myself to be.

–Nah, nah, nah! We be askin’ dem questions, fella! Who in blazis ya thinkcha are, makin’ use of da town’s resourcis just like dat? Dontcha knows you musta has permish’n fer dat? –growled the caressing one while he approached and raised a pointed finger at me.

At that moment, I had a very hard time understanding their words. I had never heard such dialect and that only worsened the situation.

–Excuse me? I… I do not understand… Perhaps you could speak slower?

–Perhaps –he uttered this word in a mocking fashion- ya couldsa shaddap and turn dat handsome pouch over ‘ere n’ perhaps we ain’t gonna go sharpin’ we blades on yer bonesies! –he nimbly unsheathed a dagger with a pristine blade and pointed to my belt- Perhaps ya understands dis, dontcha?

I looked down and saw the pouch he meant and a sheath of my own, concealed behind the pouch. I did not know what was inside the bag, so it was no effort releasing it and throwing it at him. He caught it effortlessly and I tried as hard as I could not to shiver while he hid my pouch under his cloak.

–But den again, I already took out sweet Thurkear ‘ere –he said with evil playfulness as he raised his dagger-, n’ it wouldsa be so so impolite ta put ‘er away whivout ae proper meal, righ’, bruh? –and he got up very close.

–Surely, brah! Vignar too’s aching fer sum practiss… –the other one unsheathed his dagger as well and I must have gone pale:

–Aww, doncha fear, wee one –said the first one, Thurkear’s owner-, we just gonna slice ya ae couple steaks. If ya be very very brave, we cut yer whole legsie off so ya can beg at da Markit Green and make yerself sum coin, ‘kay? –as he spoke, he stretched forward to thrust my belly.

I know not what got inside me. Suddenly, in a split second, I reached for the dagger in my sheath and drew it, absent thought or without even looking. It felt… Natural. Like I always knew the dagger was there and I always knew how to use it in order to relieve dire circumstances. My movements felt like a carefully trained choreography, as if my subconscious automatically recognized a series of situational elements and reacted in the best way. But I did not actively think all this in the moment; this I deduce today. Back then my body relaxed and my mind focused without a moment’s pause, which I thank, for I would have got skewered like roasted fish in a bonfire.

While my right foot took a step back and to my left in a semicircular fashion, my hand took up the dagger backwards (with the tip not closest to the thumb, but farthest), my arm unsheathed with an upward movement, and made the most of the whole motion of my body to get my self out of the way and slash at the attacker’s inner wrist. Grunt # 1 lets out a painful howl and drops Thurkear a bit far away. Enraged, he tries to punch me with his other hand, but my previous attack left him at an ill position: I duck under his intended blow, step forward with my right foot, followed by my daggering arm, gashing his right thigh. He screams in pain and frustration while putting the knee of his wounded leg to the ground.

Seeing this, Sidekick jumps in while wrapping himself up in his dirty cloak, hollering. “IMMA USE YER FACE AS GLOVES!” Thinking I am too busy fumbling with his “brattah”, he throws in a very large cut, which I easily dodge rolling under to my left side. Bleeding Thigh uses this moment to scurry back and pick up Thurkear from the ground, raising a lot of dust with his cloak in the process. “DARN YOU, SLICK CRAB LOUSE!”, he shouts at me. As soon as I am back on my feet, I care not for the cloak of Count Mystery and I calculate: right below his false ribs. I stab deep until I feel my dagger pierce flesh and gristle with a nasty pop, like ripping cooked poultry apart. I then retrieve the blade and it is followed by a small spurt of blood and a rant of howling gibberish.

Bleeding Duster takes advantage of my back facing him and attacks with a well placed thrust. I am able to move aside at the last moment, but still he draws blood from my shoulder. Writhing in pain, Vignar’s wielder throws an unsuccessful blind attack. Smirking, I jump on him, my knees on his chest, I bring him down on his back while sinking my whole blade in his neck. For the briefest instant I feel his pulse throb from his heart through my blade. Blood gushes, he utters a small whimper, shakes for a moment, and the Raven Queen smokes his eyes. I turn to face Limpy, eager to get payback for the injury on my shoulder.

"Rottin’ bastard! Ya killed me brah! I’LL SEW ME PANTS WHIV YER SINEW AND PATCH ME CLOAK WHIV YER ‘IDE!" roars the halfling and he charges at me like a crazed moron. No science here: he runs dragging his right leg, I trip him, he falls prone, and I finish the job between his shoulderblades, twisting my dagger so he feels it before severing his spinal cord and turning him into an offering for my Queen.

I then stood up, praying to my Goddess while I breathed fire out of my lungs, frenzy left my body, and a red haze faded from my mind. Feeling like I did some sort of divine mandate, I turn Urchin the First face up like his brother, bare both their chests and carved there the symbol of my Scythed Lady with their own daggers.

The soil was red with blood, the blue sky was reflecting on the clear water of the river, the cloud fluffs traveled over a flying hawk, and the blazing sun was now high above. The hammering sound kept ringing the whole time.

Wherefore, then, do I find myself not only minding a journal, but explaining to myself what I already know? Personal gain. Something is happening to me and I want to know what it is. Again, I explain myself my own reasons because I must be clear to my purpose if I am to unearth what happens to me.

I found myself troubled in dreams last night by disheartening visions. That is not remarkable in itself, but the fact that the dreams have stirred some impetuous emotions in the very fibers of my self is uncanny indeed, for the visions made me question some facts I did not care for before. Why am I here? How did I get here? I do not add philosophical fever to these questions: I mean not an abstract concern of absolute being. I ask why am I, Kemet the gnome, adventuring so far from home? I should be back in Fallcrest, artfully picking peasants’ pockets, conning numbskulls to release coin, gathering information for the River Rats… But then again, what in the name of Tarrasque is a gnome doing so far removed form the beauty of the Feywild, cast upon a populous town, living in the surface? I felt fear when I recalled not remembering anything before Fallcrest. All my outcast acquaintances had some story, tragic, depressing, moving, and whatnot: orphans, chronic scoundrels, mercenaries… All outcasts for some reason. All but me. I appear to have popped into existence in town at some point. I cannot remind myself of my parents’ visages, which is not enough to suspect anything (many of my colleagues were orphaned since such a tender age, that it was safe to establish that they did never know who fathered them), but I am too young not to remember.

I count seventeen rain seasons in my life, two of which have I been adventuring. My companions found me when I was fifteen years of age, after ten years living off unsuspecting passers by in Fallcrest (and no one, not even High Priestess Dirina, ever said anything about my origins). I render myself frightened because I feel like I have been walking this plane for way longer than chronology tries to reveal. More than once have I felt comfortable doing tasks I never did before, and not failing at them... How is that possible?

I have wandered too far from what I thought was my hometown, so I am not able to make inquiries on the matter. The only thing I can think of to dredge in the recesses of my memory is write everything I can recall, as far back as I can, but I find myself shivering again, because, if I were an orphan all my life, how come I know the Elvish language and script? Sure, there was a slight veriety of races in Fallcrest, but no one ever taught me anything of the like and my homeless context was entirely one of Common speakers which, by the way, were plagued by a slang I can handle, but do not care for. Why?

I was going to utter a prayer for the Raven Queen to help me in this enterprise of rescuing my past, but another question shifts my weathered resolve: where does my stern devotion to the Goddess of Death come from? There is more in my soul than my head can pry right now, I am sure of it, even if I am not sure if I shall embrace what I find.