Pembrick's Creaturepedia

Introduction

Since the Second Epoch, the creatures of Aerwiar have grown more and more corrupt, more and more dangerous, and (I would argue) more and more beautiful. I believe all three are true, sometimes regarding the same wild beast! A case in point: the squeeblin. And not just any squeeblin, but the various species of squeeblins—from the fuzzy squeeblin of the lower Stony Mountains to the softish squeeblin of Plontst, to the verbose squeeblin of the Linnard Woodlands. Each type of this curious curiosity is wonderful to espy, whether it be yellow, speckled, or chartreuse (very rare!), glorying in the moon’s rays! But let the espying soul beware! The serene squeeblish countenance belies its deadly flesh-hooks and its insolent heart. It is corrupt. It is dangerous. And yet, it is undeniably pulchritudinous of aspect! Such, alas, are many of the Maker’s makings scattered across the lands of Aerwiar.

My uncle, a greengrocer of the Shining Isle (a man I shall refer to here as The Gobbled, or, more plainly, Uncle Bahb) met a grisly end one day on a vegetationary expedition to the Woes of Shreve, where he happened upon a stand of fartichoke plants (delicious! aromatic!) and was beset most misfortunately by a nesting blazzrod. How long might The Gobbled have lived had he only known never to harvest fartichokes during the Fifthmoon a mere fortnight after a sandstorm! He would no doubt be a grocer still. As it is, he is merely grosser, if you will, as he decomposes in the bellies of the blazzrod hatchlings. The Gobbled’s death demanded my dedication to the work that you now hold in your ungobbled hands.

How many lives might be saved by this humble submission to the bestiaries of the age, I cannot say. I can say, however, that no owner of this Creaturepedia can lay blame on anyone but himself if he should, in flippant disregard of the warnings herein, harvest fartichokes after a sandstorm at the wrong time of year. His last thoughts may be, Alas! I should have hearkened to Ollister Bahbert Pembrick!

And so, reader, should you.

Hearken, that is.

To me.

I have traveled extensively these many years, at great personal cost—for certain of my own parts have been gobbled. Such is the price of exploration, of discovery, of cataloguing the creepers and crawlers and squatters and chewers and gnawers and hatchers and lickers and gazers and sneakers and squeakers and lopers and leapers and lie-in-waiters and human-haters and spitters and flappers and lurkers and leakers and sneakers (Yes! “Sneakers” again, for they abound!) and grinders and finders and draggers and blinders and clenchers and binders and winders (of tail) and wrenchers (of innards) and munchers and grinners and flexers and scrapers, and did I mention sneakers?
Count yourself fortunate to have happened upon this volume. Count yourself fortunate that you did not happen upon the remains of Uncle Bahb that day in the Woes of Shreve. Count yourself membered and not dismembered, remembered and not regurgitated. With this Creaturepedia close at hand, you may walk the world of Aerwiar calm and/or composed, rather than embalmed and/or decomposing.

Have a nice day.

—Ollister Bahbert Pembrick, esq., the partly maimed, master of disguisery, president of the Occasional Greengrocers’ Alliance of Pennybridge, Isle of Anniera