Grawlgore & Shanks #1 - Fantasy Mystery Detectives!

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"A Stitch In Crime" Conclusion, Backerkit Survey Coming Soon
8 months ago – Mon, Aug 11, 2025 at 09:44:32 AM

Hey, ComixTribe fans, hope you're doing well and enjoying the summer as the days left get more and more precious. A few things in this update:

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A STITCH IN CRIME (CONCLUSION)

Last update, we shared the first two chapters of a thrilling Grawlgore & Shanks mystery and invited you, our fans, to submit your predictions for solving the case.  

Note: Did you miss the first part of A Stitch in Crime? It was posted in this update. Read first!

CHAPTER THREE

The plain wooden coffin was being housed in the crypt temporarily, until the pyre could be arranged. It sat in total blackness, no light from outside its stone walls penetrating within. But darkness had fallen outside before the silence was disturbed, the stone door slowly scraping open. A shadowy figure crept into the dark, their breath short and halting as they closed the door behind them. The intruder lit a candle to offer a faint, shimmering respite from the absolute dark. With shuffling footsteps, they made their way to the closed coffin. Their hand trembled as it hovered over the lid, before finally gripping it and swinging it open.

Upon seeing that the coffin was empty, Hermus Finwiss let out a high-pitched scream.

“Looking for something, Mr. Finwiss?”

Finwiss spun around. His candle could not see into the far corners of the crypt, but he recognised the voice coming from the darkness.

“Muh-Mister Grawlgore?!” Finwiss asked, “What are you doing here in the dark?!”

“Ah, for Mr. Shanks and I, this is not so bad,” Grawlgore said, “Our eyes are good in the dark.”

“You can see, then, that Markoner…”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Shanks chimed in, “He’s here, with us.”

“With you?!” Finwiss exclaimed, the pitch of his voice rising again.

“Forgive us, Mr. Finwiss, Mr. Markoner remains quite dead,” Grawlgore said cheerily, “Shanks thought it would be amusing to move the body and give you a fright.”

“Heh, heh, heh,” came the laugh from Shanks.

“In truth, I had no requirement for the whole body…” Grawlgore said.

And then, out of nowhere, Grawlgore emerged from the dark, rendered visible at last by Finwiss’s feeble candle, close enough to reach out and touch the tailor. He let out another startled yelp.

“…all I needed was this.”

Grawlgore, smiling but with hard eyes, held up Markoner’s hat, gripped between his hands.

“Truly, a majestically designed piece of headwear,” Grawlgore continued, twirling the hat around as Finwiss looked on intently, his countenance filling with dread, “I noted its fine craftmanship when Mr. Markoner permitted me to examine it yesterday, and I was even stuck by its smooth, seamless interior. The slip stitch completely escaped my notice.”

Carefully, Grawlgore pressed his palm into the interior of the hat, then pushed upwards, towards its top. The upward motion caused a quartet of concealed needle-point barbs to emerge from the lining, pointed downwards and inwards. When Grawlgore released the pressure, the barbs retracted inside the lining once again.

“Last night, I mentioned to Shanks that there were blueburn blossoms out in the fields, how their thorns can cause inflammation. I was, at the time, considering the extremities, a painful red swelling that can be inflicted upon a hand or foot when pierced with a thorn for even a fleeting moment, with lingering irritation for hours or even days after the fact. I was not considering what effect such a toxin could have when driven directly into a man’s temples, and left buried in there for several hours.”

Finwiss started to back away, eyes looking over his shoulders in the direction of where he thought the crypt door to be.

“I would not attempt to flee, Mr. Finwiss, before you have heard what I have to say. You know where I am in the dark, but Shanks remains in the shadows, and could be anywhere.”

That thought caused Finwiss to halt once more, looking sickly.

“Why would I do such a thing?” he stammered, “Markoner might have been a brute, but he was a good customer.”

“Not so good a customer when he received everything for free,” Grawlgore retorted, “And why was that the case? It certainly was not due to any fondness you held for him. And then, it occurred to me. Your cloth, so fine to the touch. I could not place it at the time, but upon further consideration, it came to me. It is from the Fellran artisans. Fine cloth indeed, and little-seen beyond the far North. But elven cloth from Morvenknell, it is not.”

Finwiss seemed to be deflating in real time, his already small frame growing even smaller.

“I would imagine that Markoner helped you procure it,” Grawlgore said, “But once he became aware of how integral its supposed magic-warding properties were to your business, he realised he much power that gave him over you, a power he has only exploited more and more. If, as he noted at the tavern last night, he was intending to reside permanently here in Quincelan, that could have truly put your business in peril. Something had to be done about him, and if it could be done in a way to reaffirm fear of magic and further increase demand for your wares… all the better.”

Grawlgore began pacing in a circle around Finwiss, like a hunter whose quarry had been ensnared in a net.

“It was a quite masterful plan, Mr. Finwiss, some fine murderous craft from a man who, to give you some credit, I believe is not a natural murderer. Even baiting him into sullying the name of Kolglainne in front of a tavern full of witnesses. It is a crime you would have gotten away with quite deftly… if Markoner had been buried.”

Grawlgore pushed up the interior of the hat once more, unsheathing the barbs again.

“Blueburn blossoms have a name which, to a layman, might be confusing, considering that they appear yellow. But they earned their colourful moniker because, when put to flame, the chemical properties within turn the fire a bright, luminous blue. A hue that is quite unmistakeable to those who are familiar. If that ritual pyre turned bright blue tomorrow night, then the death of Markoner would no longer be regarded with breathless awe and terror as a mysterious curse inflicted by a faraway wizard. Suspicion would turn to poisoning, murder by human hand. The finger might not have been definitively pointed at you, for you are a much-loved businessman. But it left a chance, and one you could not bear to take. Hence your return to retrieve this hat.”

With Grawlgore’s revelations shared, a silence fell upon the crypt for several long seconds, finally broken by a deep sigh escaping from Finwiss’s lips.

“You truly are perceptive, Mr. Grawlgore,” he said wearily.

“I cannot help but be so,” replied Grawlgore, with pride, yes, but also a note of regret.

“You have made your case, most compellingly,” Finwiss said, “Now, if you please, allow me to make mine. Markoner was a monster. A bully, a thief, and most likely worse. If he had continued to live, the next step would surely have been to be blackmailed into assisting in his criminal enterprises in some regard. And it is not just me. There is nobody in Quincelan who would tell you that their life has been made better by knowing him or falling into his orbit, not one soul his presence touched positively. Quite the opposite, in fact. At every turn, he corrupted those around him and bent them to his will. His is a clear case ot someone whose removal will make life tangibly better for all who had the misfortune of knowing him.”

Finwiss looked near tears now, nakedly pleading.

“If you inform the magistrate about this, it will do nothing to bring back a horrible, unmourned man from the grave. All it will accomplish is destroying the most prominent business in Quincelan, whose existence benefits and enriches the whole town for the travellers and custom it draws here. You said it yourself. I am no natural murderer. I have done this one awful thing, so that I may now be free to live an honest life going forward. Please, I beg of you, Mr. Grawlgore. Do not take this from me.”

Grawlgore’s eyes softened, appearing genuinely moved by the old tailor’s words.

“Truly, Mr. Finwiss, I am sympathetic to your plight,” Grawlgore said, “I do not believe you to be an evil man. But I cannot abide deception. Any future peace and prosperity you achieve will be built on a lie. It was already built on a lie. Your craftmanship is exquisite. You had no need to pretend your fabrics had protections against magic. But you played to the lingering fear of these people, and you are doing so even more brazenly now. The preservation of your secret would sentence every soul in Quincelan to a life under the shadow of terror of the Dread Wizard… a power he should no longer have over the free peoples of Plaena.”

Silent tears ran down the cheeks of Finwiss as he nodded, despair and defeat in his eyes.

“I shall plead for leniency to the magistrates,” Grawlgore said softly, placing a hand on the tailor’s forearm, “But the truth must be known.”

With a sudden burst of energy, Finwiss let out a yell, wrenching the hat out of Grawlgore’s hands and attempting to push it down onto his head. Grawlgore gripped the hat by the brim, pushing it away from his crown. And then, Shanks emerged from the shadows, grabbing Finwiss firmly by the waist and hauling him away from Grawlgore, slamming him onto the ground.

Of course, the orc steward was never too far away.

…

With the business that needed attending, it was late the following day before Grawlgore and Shanks had finally packed up their wagon, ready to depart Quincelan. Durrock the barkeep warily approached them.

“Any idea what’ll happen to Finwiss?” Durrock asked.

“I cannot say for sure,” Grawlgore said, “He is currently imprisoned in the dungeons. I did request leniency, so my hope is that he will be spared the axe.”

“Our tailor’s shop is vacant now, if you’re looking for business,” Durrock said, nodding towards the gleaming storefront, “People come here looking for fine clothing, you’d make good coin. And it’d help us to keep up appearances. You’re welcome to stay. Your orc, too.”

Shanks let out a derisive snort, and Durrock instinctively took a half-step back.

“Thank you for the generous offer,” Grawlgore said with a smile, “It is true, when I entered the shop of H.B. Finwiss, my heart filled with admiration. I had the thought that I should much like such a shop for myself, one day.”

Grawlgore ran a hand along the surface of his wagon, and stroked the mane of his horses, Bonnet and Brim.

“But that one day is not now, I am afraid,” he continued, “I still find joy and purpose visiting new locales, meeting new people. I still have so much to learn.”

And so, Grawlgore and Shanks took their leave, riding their wagon out of Quincelan, and back on the road.

“You know, they’re just going to get a different tailor in there who’s going to sell different fake elven cloth,” scowled Shanks, eyes ahead, “And they’ll all still buy it. Because you might not abide deception, Grawlgore, but plenty of dullards are more than happy to live lies that suit them.”

“Possibly,” answered Grawlgore, a thoughtful smile on his face, “Or perhaps they will surprise us. You make whatever little fixes you can. Speaking of…”

Grawlgore slapped Shanks’s leg.

“The slip stitch worked a treat!” Grawlgore exclaimed, “It is like your leggings were never torn at all. A service free of charge to my very good friend.”

“I told you, Grawlgore, we’re not friends,” Shanks said with a scoff, but with a little half-smile.

“Yes, yes,” Grawlgore said knowingly, “Now, where were we? Ah yes, lies we tell ourselves.”

Shanks never responded, focused on steering the wagon round the corner and past the last of the blueburn blossoms, glistening in the afternoon sun.

*****************************************************************

We hope you enjoyed that short story. John had fun writing it, and he also had fun reading some of the mystery solving from our readers. 

Both Winston and Wilfried were in the ballbark and both guessed that a poisoning of the hat had something to do with Markoner's demise.  So, we're hooking both backers up with $20.00 in ComixTribe Bonus Bucks they can redeem in their Backerkit Surveys! 

Thanks for playing.  

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CAN YOU SOLVE THIS GRAWLGORE & SHANKS MYSTERY?

Remember those old Encyclopedia Brown short mysteries, where you read a story, and then Encyclopedia solved the mystery, but the reader had the chance to solve it too, before reading the rest of the story?  

Well, we have one of those for you, written by John Lees, starring Grawlgore & Shanks! And this one has a prize attached... 

1: Read the beginning of the story below. 

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4: Get your entries in before 8/8/25.  We'll share the rest of the story and the winner the following week! 

A STITCH IN CRIME

A Grawlgore & Shanks Adventure 

Written by John Lees

 CHAPTER I

 “Our sales are shite, Grawlgore.”

 Arlog Shanks’s assessment of the situation was blunt, as the orc tended to be in most matters of discourse, but it was not inaccurate. He and Vaun Grawlgore, the dwarf tailor who employed him, arrived on their horse-drawn wagon of wares in the small town of Quincelan in the early hours of the morning, Grawlgore Fitting & Finery setting up shop in the town square. It was now afternoon, and barely a soul had so much as slowed down to peruse the clothing on offer. The nature of being a travelling merchant meant that some stops were better than others, but normally, the novelty of a new arrival, a wagon converted into a mobile storefront, was enough to at least draw some curiosity from the local residents. But such was not the case in Quincelan.

Grawlgore and Shanks were quite quickly made aware of the reason for this disinterest. Quincelan already had a tailor. Right there on the town square stood a respectably sized stone structure, with a sign that read “H.B. Finwiss Tailor and Garments” hanging over the door. Not a passing artisan, but a permanent fixture in this community. And the shop had a steady flow of custom throughout the day, including travellers arriving in the town on horse-back. Clearly, the services of H.B. Finwiss were an attraction known beyond the confines of Quincelan, and a fly-by-night dwarven upstart with a big cart had no chance of competing.

And yet, despite his most unprofitable morning, Vaun Grawlgore showed no outward sign of distress. Quite the contrary, his face gleamed with admiration whenever he looked up at the building. Finally, he could contain his curiosity no longer.

“Shanks, this establishment requires a more comprehensive appraisal,” he declared in his bright, booming voice, “My errand shall be brief but, I hope, most fruitful.”

“You’re just going to leave me here?” Shanks asked incredulously as Grawlgore stepped away from the wagon, “What if someone comes along who’s actually interested in buying something?”

“You will just have to win them over with your charming demeanour and make the sale,” Grawlgore answered, flashing a wry grin, before turning away and walking across the square in the direction of the shop.

Shanks, whose job purview as Grawlgore’s steward generally just extended to driving the wagon and guarding the storefront from thieves and vandals, was not a natural salesman. Letting out a deep sigh, he stepped up to the counter and hoped that it wouldn’t come to that.

Grawlgore, meanwhile, stepped into the clothes shop, a little bell jingling as he pushed open the wooden door, carefully closing it behind him. The interiors were cosy and carpeted like a home, racks filled with cloaks, tunics, trousers, shirts, and all manner of gowns and dresses, while shoes and hats were displayed on shelves. Vaun Grawlgore was not of the disposition to feel envy at such a display. Instead, he felt earnest joy that someone else shared his passion for fashion and had found such success in pursuing it, someone from whom he could perhaps learn some valuable lessons to grow his own enterprise. His eyes gleamed as he ran his hands along the delicate fabrics, admiring the stitching and thoughtful craftmanship. There was no room for envy, when his mind was instead filled with inspiration.

“Looking for anything in particular?” came a warm voice, emerging from the rear of the building.

Grawlgore turned to face an older human man with a slight frame, a wispy moustache curled up under his nose and thoughtful eyes set deep under his brow.

“H.B. Finwiss, I presume?” asked Grawlgore.

“Indeed,” replied Finwiss, giving a little bow.

“Excellent,” Grawlgore said, “Then, to answer your query, the particular I am looking for is you! I am Vaun Grawlgore, a fellow tailor by trade. And I just wished to express great admiration for your body of work. And all such fine material! If I may intrude to ask, what fabric do you use?”

“Ah, of course, a fellow tailor would of course know this material is special at one touch,” said Finwiss, beaming proudly, “It is elven cloth from Morvenknell.”

“Morvenknell!” exclaimed Grawlgore, unable to conceal his gasp of amazement, “The home of the legendary hero, Lashlund! They say that cloth spun there…”

“…has added resistance to all forms of magic, yes,” nodded Finwiss sagely, “Not so pressing a concern now, with the War of Seven Wizards long over and the dread wizard Kolglainne gone from these shores, but people still like to feel safe. And it doesn’t hurt that it is some of the finest fabric in all of Plaena. Not easy to acquire, but the high demand makes it a worthwhile investment.”

“I run my business out of a wagon,” Grawlgore said, grinning with admiration at his surroundings, “A fine vehicle, constructed in Mirthroe to my custom specifications. But still, such an arrangement has its limitations. To have a permanent shop like this, where people come to me… that feels like a worthy aspiration.”

The bell on the door jingled again. Grawlgore noted Finwiss’s face fall into an expression of worry before he himself turned to greet the new arrival.

The newcomer was a tall, broad-shouldered man with rough, harsh features, a twice-broken nose, a cauliflower ear, a scar on his chin, and a cruel glint in his eye. But his clothing was immaculate, all black, shaped and tailored to enhance his profile. The man removed his gloves and ran a calloused hand through his long, dark, slicked-back hair.

“An orc on the street, and a dwarf in your shop,” the man said with a sneer, “My, my, Hermus, they truly will let anyone into Quincelan these days.”

Grawlgore smiled, as if accepting the joke at his expense in good grace. But beneath the drape of his delicate garments, he was coiled like a spring. There was something dangerous about this man, and if things took a turn, he had to be prepared.

But the man just laughed, raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

“I jest, I jest!” he laughed, “The name’s Markoner. I’m one of Mr. Finwiss’s most valued customers. So valued, in fact, that he now kindly provides me all services free of charge.”

Grawlgore turned back to Finwiss, eyebrow raised. But Finwiss just smiled weakly and nodded.

“Speaking of,” continued Markoner, “I’m here to pick up my hat. You’ve finished repairing it, right?”

“Of course,” stammered Finwiss, scurrying into the back room.

Markoner looked down at Grawlgore, giving a cold, mirthless smirk. Grawlgore smiled warmly in return, but internally wished that Shanks was with him.

Finwiss returned, holding a well-made black hat with a narrow brim, coming to a subtle point at the crown. He handed it over to Markoner, eyes cast downward.

“Ah, there it is!” said Markoner, clapping his hands together, “I’ve felt naked without it propped on my head. I was heartbroken when it got torn, but I knew my friend Hermus could fix it right up, good and proper. Want a look, dwarf?”

“Of course,” Grawlgore said politely. He took the hat in his hands and examined it, as Finwiss looked on anxiously. He assessed the hat’s sturdy exterior structure, then ran his hand along the hat’s smooth interior surface, giving a thoughtful nod, before handing it back to Markoner.

“Some exquisite headwear, my good friend,” Grawlgore stated.

Markoner twirled the hat in his hand, smirking to himself.

“By Kolglainne’s cock, this is a fine hat indeed,” he proclaimed.

“Please, Markoner,” Finwiss sputtered, looking ashen, “Don’t invoke his name in my place of business. There are evil forces in this world that should not be trifled with. That is the one thing I cannot abide.”

Markoner tilted his head, looking amused as he slowly paced towards Finwiss.

“Oh, you cannot abide it?” he asked, “So, so sorry. And why would I be moved by what you can abide?”

He had now backed the much smaller Finwiss up against the wall. Grawlgore made to interject, but Finwiss flashed him a pleading look that told him to hold back, to not escalate things and make matters worse.

“Kolglainne can slurp the shit off my shoe,” Markoner hissed behind a hard grin, “Kolglainne can upturn a stool and squat. Kolglainne can gargle my horse’s piss. Kolglainne, Kolglainne, Kolglainne. The war is over. Magic is gone from these lands. I hold no fear of its power. And hold no respect for those who do.”

Markoner looked over one shoulder. Then another, winking at Grawlgore when they made eye contact. Then he turned back towards the terrified Finwiss, his stance softening as he playfully shook him by the shoulder.

“See? No lightning bolt from the sky to strike me down!” Markoner laughed, “Relax, Hermus! We’re a good help to one another. Let’s keep things jovial. If you can abide it.”

Finally, Markoner stepped away from Finwiss, turning on his heel and putting his hat on his head. Finwiss closed his eyes and let out an exhalation of relief.

“Perhaps I’ll be seeing you, dwarf,” Markoner said, giving an insincere little bow before stepping out of the shop.

Following the rogue’s departure, Grawlgore attempted to make light conversation with Finwiss, take his mind off the stress of the encounter, but the old tailor was clearly shaken, unable to focus on any point of discussion. Eventually, with a note of apology, Finwiss noted to Grawlgore that the shop was set to close soon, which Grawlgore took as a hint that it was time to take his leave.

Back out on the town square, Grawlgore was met by a shocking sight. Arlog Shanks, accepting coin from a nervous-looking man in exchange for a waistcoat, looking quite pleased with himself.

Passing the customer, who studiously avoided meeting his eye as he clutched his bright yellow purchase to his chest, Grawlgore walked up to Shanks, waving his arms with excitement.

“Congratulations, Shanks!” Grawlgore exclaimed, “Our first sale of the day! How did you get that gentleman to purchase the waistcoat?”

“Simple,” Shanks replied sagely, “I said I’d batter him if he didn’t.”

…

There weren’t many sales to be had after that, and so, after shutting up shop for the day, Grawlgore and Shanks retired to the nearest tavern on the square, the Burst Bucket. The barkeep narrowed his eyes at the sight of the hulking orc entering his establishment and taking a seat at a table in the corner. And as the orc’s dwarf companion made his way to the bar, the barkeep made his displeasure known.

“I don’t like havin’ orcs in here,” the barkeep growled sullenly.

“Oh, I see,” Grawlgore said, smiling politely, “And is there some enforceable law on the Quincelan charter barring orcs from entering taverns and other such businesses?”

“No, but…” the barkeep began.

“In that case, I shall have two tankards of ale, please,” Grawlgore cut in, his smile affixed and unflinching, “One for myself, and one for my very good friend.”

The barkeep slammed the two tankards down on the bar. Grawlgore reached up to retrieve them, and spotted Finwiss sat at the far end of the bar, observing this exchange. They smiled and nodded at each other, and Grawlgore made his way over to their corner table.

“I never fought in the shiting Seven Wizard War, I’m too young,” grumbled Shanks as he took his drink off Grawlgore, “But because the orcs fought on the losing side, it still gets held against me by dullards like him.”

“Not everyone is like him, Shanks,” Grawlgore said.

“Yeah, but enough are,” Shanks snapped back.

Grawlgore’s attempt to offer some further words of reassurance was interrupted by the arrival of Markoner into the tavern. He smirked and tipped his hat at Grawlgore and Shanks as he passed, settling at the bar.

“I’ll have wine tonight, Durrock, the good stuff,” he said to the barkeep, “I have reason to celebrate. See, I think my time on the road is coming to an end. Quincelan is a fine spot to settle. And I think I’ll be calling in some old debts. A fine tavern you have here, Durrock. I’ve always wanted to own a tavern.”

He leaned forward, smiling at Durrock, his cold eyes unblinking. Durrock glowered with anger, but it was him who looked away first, turning his back on the patrons to pour a chalice of his best wine.

Markoner caught sight of Finwiss at the end of the bar, trying to keep his head down. Apparently noting that he now already had an audience of the other patrons of the tavern from the little spectacle he’d made on his entrance, he grinned deviously as he decided to keep the show going.

“Uh-oh, be careful everyone!” Markoner said, holding a hand to his mouth in mock worry, “None of you barbarians better speak ill of the Dread Wizard Kolglainne while Mr. Finwiss is about! You might make him piss in his breeches! Which, I hear, is what Kolglainne did upon witnessing the assembled armies of elf, dwarf and man at Point Vectus.”

There was a smattering of laughter in response to this, but it was uncomfortable. Clearly, Finwiss wasn’t the only one in Quincelan wary of tempting fate.

“This lout seems to take a relish in bullying that poor man,” Grawlgore whispered to Shanks, “It is most repellent. Though I must regrettably concede that this Markoner has a somewhat valid point. As you yourself astutely noted, Shanks, the war ended generations ago. Magic has been outlawed, and however much terror Kolglainne and his armies brought to the realm of Plaena, his influence has long been dispersed, with no sign of returning. The idea that someone idly mocking his memory would… provoke his ire wherever he is, if he is even still alive, and prompt some swift recrimination is quite frankly laughable.”

“I don’t know, Grawlgore,” Shanks said, thumbing at his nose and shuffling in his seat, “I might not believe in the power of curses, especially poorly-defined ones, but I’d still rather not take the risk. I do think that bad energy can linger.”

Grawlgore let out a warm chuckle, shaking his head and slapping Shanks on the forearm.

“Oh, Shanks!” he bellowed, “And there was me thinking you were a calculating cynic! It seems there may be some superstition in you after all.”

Meanwhile, Markoner, sipping on his chalice of wine, had turned to his audience, holding court.

“I have a joke for you all,” he said, clearing his throat, “A man walks into a tavern, and he spots, lurking in a dark corner, the Dread Wizard Kolglainne. As he gets closer, he sees that Kolglainne is crying, waving his staff back and forth. ‘What are you doing?’ asks the man. ‘I’m trying to get it working again,’ sobs Kolglainne, ‘It’s been useless ever since I lost the war! Boo-hoo!’ The man frowns, and says, ‘That’s no excuse to be masturbating in public, put that staff back under your robes!’”

This produced another smattering of laughter, a little louder this time. Finwiss shrunk in his stool and cringed.

“What do you call the beard of the Dread Wizard Kolglainne?” asked Markoner, “Toilet paper!”

More laughter from the patrons now, and Markoner laughed too, chuckling heartily at his unfunny joke.

And then he started to cough.

And then he started to choke.

The laughter in the tavern very quickly stopped dead. Markoner choked and sputtered, swaying around the tavern, trying to grip onto the edge of the bar to steady himself. Then, he started screaming in pain. There were gasps of horror in the tavern as he spun around to reveal his eyes were totally red, and then blood started running down his cheeks in tears. More blood poured from his ears, nose and mouth. With one last gurgle, Markoner’s legs gave out from under him, the side of his head cracked off the edge of the bar, and he collapsed in a heap on the floor, dead.

“Suffering shits!” shouted Shanks, standing up from his chair.

“It’s the curse of Kolglainne!” shouted Durrock, pointing at the body on the floor, eyes wide with panic.

There were screams and prayers as the tavern erupted into chaos, the patrons fleeing. Finwiss remained slumped on his seat, rocking back and forth, a look of sad resignation over his dire warnings coming true.

“We had best depart, Shanks,” said Grawlgore, ushering the orc out the front door.

CHAPTER II

“I still don’t see how we couldn’t just camp out in the fields.”

It was too late to ride out of Quincelan, and they hadn’t made enough to justify purchasing a room at the inn, so Grawlgore and Shanks were still in the square, crammed into the back of Grawlgore’s wagon, trying their best to sleep.

“I saw some patches of blueburn blossom on the way in,” Grawlgore replied, “I would not trust us not to lie on a patch in the dark, and their thorns can be quite inflammatory if embedded under skin.”

A little time passed in silence.

“What a night, eh?” Shanks sighed.

‘Most unfortunate,” Grawlgore replied, “Markoner did not seem like a pleasant individual, but nobody deserves such a grisly demise.”

“Kolglainne really left a mark on this world,” Shanks said, “If a blight was a person, it’d be him. All that war and needless death. And then sodding off and leaving the orcs he duped into following him to take the brunt of the vengeance the survivors were crying out for.”

“Indeed,” Grawlgore replied, unusually short on words.

“But to strike Markoner dead, to put a curse on him,” Shanks continued, “Does that mean Kolglainne’s back?”

Another silence. Finally, Grawlgore responded.

“No, Kolglainne is not coming back. At least, not now, and not to Quincelan. On my travels, I have been a fair share of evils blamed on the malign influence of Kolglainne. But plenty of wickedness can be accomplished without the aid of an erstwhile wizard.”

Grawlgore rolled over, preparing to attempt sleep. But before closing his eyes, he spoke once more.

“Markoner was struck dead, true enough. But I would venture to say that all is not what it seems here. I do not enjoy being deceived. If there is a truth being concealed here… I shall uncover it.”

…

In the morning following the death of Markoner, business at the wagon was even more subdued. Disinterest and being ignored had devolved into hateful glares and overt hostility. Grawlgore and Shanks alike could make some educated guesses about what was behind this wave of ill sentiment. But confirmation would soon come at the tip of an attacker’s blade.

Durrock, the barkeep at the tavern last night, stalked towards Grawlgore’s shop, his face set like stone in a mask of rage.

“Greetings, my good friend!” Grawlgore proclaimed, “Whether you seek coat, tunic, or scarf, my reserve of sartorial delights awaits your perusal.”

Instead, Durrock grabbed a handful of items off their rail and tossed them onto the ground. At the sight of his precious clothing being so harshly manhandled, Grawlgore gasped as if he had been struck. Shanks moved swiftly, putting himself between this potentially violent presence and his employer.

“Whoa! Whoa!” Shanks barked out, hands raised.

“Do not cross me, orc!” Durrock cried, pointing at him angrily, “The dark powers of Kolglainne have fallen on Quincelan, and everyone knows that orcs were the Dread Wizard’s servants. I say it’s not by chance that this orc appears on the same day Markoner is struck dead!”

Durrock’s ranting had drawn a crowd now, villagers forming a loose circle around the wagon, and Finwiss emerging from his tailoring shop to investigate the cause of the commotion.

“Markoner was one of us!” Durrock continued, “He didn’t deserve to die by wizard’s curse. We thought the dark days were behind us, but now we’re once again faced with the old ritual of burning our dead so that dark magical energies do not fester and spread into our soil.”

There were gasps and hushed whispers among the frightened townsfolk. The colour had drained from Finwiss’s face.

“And we don’t want the likes of you festering either,” Durrock said, jabbing his finger in Shanks’s chest, “Pack up your wagon and go.”

“I don’t know magic, and Kolglainne never did me any favours,” Shanks seethed, clearly making an effort to keep his voice level, “And if you genuinely believed I was some vessel for his wrath and this wasn’t just an excuse to bask in your hate, you’d be saving that finger of yours for picking your arse and keeping it back from me.”

Shanks had kept his voice level because, as an orc existing in human environments, there were situations where he had to keep an eye on what could be interpreted as a threat of attack that justified lethal reprisal. But even while keenly aware of this factor, he did not think of his half-step towards Durrock as an overly aggressive gesture. Durrock, however, clearly did, letting out a frantic yell as he withdrew a dagger from his belt and swiped it at him. Shanks clocked the incoming attack early, stepping back and steering clear of the blade’s trajectory that would have taken a downward slice out of his chest. But instead, it grazed his thigh, tearing a slice through his black leggings and drawing a sliver of blood.

There were exclamations of horror as Shanks grabbed the barkeep’s forearm, squeezing it hard enough to make him yelp in pain and drop the dagger to the ground. With a little further exertion, he could pop the whole arm out of its socket at the shoulder, maybe even tear it clean off if he really tried. Shanks looked around, clocking the frightened looks of the townsfolk, and knew that if he made such a response, he would only be further confirming their fear-informed perception of orcs and their savagery. He raised a club-like fist to punch his attacker, and saw in his eyes not a would-be murderer, but a prejudiced barkeep who reacted in panic.

He wasn’t even worth a punch.

At the last moment, Shanks relaxed his fist, and instead walloped Durrock across the face with an open-palmed slap. It connected flush with Durrock’s cheek, letting out a reverberation like a thunderclap. The barkeep took a wild, drunken arc before collapsing face-first in a heap onto the ground.

“My goodness!” Grawlgore muttered under his breath, his arms filled with the bundled-up clothes Durrock had besmirched.

Shanks stood over Durrock as he unsteadily pushed himself onto his hands and knees.

“Stay down,” Shanks said flatly.

But still, Durrock continued his ascent, raising up to one foot, casting a spiteful glare over his shoulder at the orc who had toppled him.

Shanks responded with another thunderous slap, this time to the back of Durrock’s head, sending him down flat onto his belly again.

“I said stay down,” Shanks hissed, “If you want to leave, you can crawl away.”

Durrock hesitated for a moment, and then took his leave. On his hands and knees.

“We have no desire for violence,” Grawlgore said, speaking to the crowd, “And I would beg of you all, please, do not give into hysteria. Do not allow this man to fill your heads with terrors of magic and wizards and curses.”

The dwarf’s countenance became stern as he pointed at the crawling barkeep.

“It is understandable that, in your shock, your recollection informs you that the last thing Mr. Markoner did before succumbing to a grisly end was mock the name of the Dread Wizard. But, in actuality, his last deed was to drink wine from a chalice. Wine provided by none other than Mr. Durrock here.”

Durrock spun around, eyes wide with shock. There were some murmurs and uncertain glances among the townspeople.

“I would humbly request that you humour me and keep Mr. Durrock under strict observation until I am able to investigate his tavern inventory for traces of poison,” Grawlgore said, before restoring his affable smile once more, “And, until then, I would beseech you to disperse. Unless, of course, you have interest in my tailoring services.”

As the crowd filtered away – notably, with a few surrounding Durrock and not allowing him to slip off unattended – Grawlgore turned his attention back to Shanks. He was running a hand along his cut thigh, cursing under his breath.

“Are you hurt, Shanks?” Grawlgore asked.

“No, just a scratch, really,” Shanks replied, “I’m more annoyed by the damage to my leggings. They’re a sturdy garment that’s lasted me well until now.”

“If only you knew a good tailor,” Grawlgore said, stroking his chin, “Come, let us see what can be done.”

They both sat down on a bench, and Grawlgore pointed a finger onto his lap.

“Right, leg up here so I can take a look at it,” he said cheerfully.

Shanks hesitated, casting Shanks a doubting look.

“Really?” he asked, “Out in the town square?”

“If you would rather take them off and stand in the underwear I hope you are wearing while I work on mending them, we could do that instead,” Grawlgore answered with an arched eyebrow.

Shanks sighed, rolled his eyes, and raised his leg onto Grawlgore’s lap.

“Like a big ham hock!” exclaimed Grawlgore, peppering the massive thigh and shin with slaps like he was pounding a drum.

The dwarf then produced a satchel of tools, and fastidiously set to work, running a needle threw the torn fabric.

“I above all others appreciate the sentimental value of an accoutrement,” Grawlgore said, “And thus, I recognise how well you have cared for these leggings. Rest assured, my good friend, when my work is done, there will be no visible sign of damage. With a slip stitch, I can…”

Grawlgore trailed off, staring into the middle distance, eyes widening.

“Grawlgore?” Shanks asked, bemused.

And then, Grawlgore was back in the moment, giving the orc’s thigh another hearty slap.

“Aha!”

What thought has just occurred to Vaun Grawlgore? Have you solved the mystery, too?

[LEAVE YOUR BEST GUESS AT SOLVING THE MYSTERY IN THE COMMENTS FOR A CHANCE TO WIN COMIXTRIBE BONUS BUCKS!]

-Your Pals @ ComixTribe

P.S. The launch is a ways out, but one can never build that pre-launch follower list two early... won't you consider joining us for the SINK: HALLOWEEN SPECIAL coming during spookyseason? 

CLICK HERE TO BE THE FIRST TO JOIN THE PRE-LAUNCH

Grawlgore & Shanks #1 is a Success Thanks to You!🧌🗡️ Here's What Happens Next...
8 months ago – Mon, Jul 28, 2025 at 06:11:42 AM

What a campaign! 

Thanks so much for joining over 300 strong to help this new series get off to a proper start.  It's always a little nerve-wracking to finally bring a project you've put so much into out into the world... the fact that there are people willing to support it from the very beginning means the world to us.  

$10K STRETCH GOAL UNLOCKED! 

In the last dozen hours or so of the campaign we were able to smash the $10K mark. We promised to unlock Grawlgore & Shanks Acrylic Standees at that milestone, but because it was so close to the end, we decided they'll be available in the BACKERKIT PLEDGE MANAGER when you get your Shipping Surveys. We'll make it super easy for you to add one of these beauties to your pledge.  

👣THE NEXT STEPS...

Right now, we're in the 2 week funding freeze period, where Kickstarter is processing pledges on our behalf. 

94.1% of pledges have already been successfully processed via Kickstarter.  

Still that leaves 18 backers whose pledges have errored.

This is a simple fix, and usually means your credit card info with Kickstarter is not up to date. 

To update your payment information, simply log into Kickstarter and update your account. 

(Kickstarter will also send you an email to fix this.)  

Please resolve those pledges ASAP, so we can get you your rewards without delay. 

NOTE: If you do not fix your pledge by Friday, 8/1/25, Kickstarter will drop your pledge.

Next Step: Surveys

If you're new to Kickstarter, you may be wondering how we'll know where to send your rewards.  Not to worry... 

After Kickstarter finishes doing its thing and collects pledges from all backers, we'll send you a short SHIPPING SURVEY to fill out which will let you tell us where to send your physical and digital rewards. 

Prompt survey fulfillment = faster fulfillment, so we do hope you'll get yours in ASAP after we send it.

Once we get the surveys out, we'll follow up with a time-table on expected rewards delivery.

Don't Forget to Join Us on the INSIDE!

We're celebrating this launch with fans and fellow ComixTribe creator in our INSIDERS Private Facebook Group. 

As a backer, we'd love to have you join us on the inside! 

Click here to re quest to join. 

-John, Joe, Tyler and the rest of the gang  @ ComixTribe 

12 Hours Left! OXYMORON & CROSSWORD Sketches Up for Sale! Let's Crush $10K!
8 months ago – Sat, Jul 26, 2025 at 09:24:14 AM

Happy Saturday, friends! Hope you're enjoying your July weekend day... We'll make this real quick, as you have things to do today, and we've got a stretch goal to unlock! 

TWO NEW WARM-UP SKETCHES FROM COMIXTRIBE'S PAST! 

Joe Mulvey is taking us back to the founding days of ComixTribe, with warm-ups of two of the 'Tribe's founding villain characters.

Crosswords is Joe's own creation from his first mini-series SCAM. 

And here's Joe's OXYMORON, which is always amazing. 

Want to Own These Warm Up Sketches?

If you'd like to add this warm-up sketch to your pledge, it's available in a FLASH ADD-ON SALE for only +$40.00 a piece to any physical pledge... first come, first back!

If you need to have this Mulvey sketch, simply:

1) Click Manage Your Pledge, Confirm your Existing Pledge to open up the Add-ons, and then Find the new Add-On in the add-on menu. 

2) Add to your order and confirm. 

3) This awesome sketch is all yours... and you'll help get us another step closer to the next milestone...

NOTE: If you do not see this One-of-One sketch in the add-on menu, that means someone already snagged it! THEY USUALLY GO QUICK! 

Let's take this thing home!