An elderly man came to town, cloaked and shrouded in mystery. He ordered milk and sat outside alone, spouting curses and rambling whimsical nonsense as if the air around him commanded an orchestra of crude glances, hand gestures, and spit ridden words. Seething with an uncontrollable desire for milk, he lay alone, south of the well, in hiding.
Some time went by and everyone called this man Farnham the Drunk, because, well, he was mad for the lactose and sweet white nectar harvested from what he believed to be the Cow King.
One morning, awoken from a stupor, Farnham stumbled to the river when he heard strange and horrifying noises coming from across the river and north from him. Pish posh, slosh and slap went the water as he crossed and made his way to the other side. He peered, deep into the misty clearing to find a small hut, brimming with a powerful aura. Cool sweat gave way to clammy hands and a thirst for the drink of the gods, but Farnham in a panic, reached, searched and was unable to find his flask. Tears flowed and he began to mutter when he noticed for the quickest of glances a horned, white and black figure in the distance.
Could this be, the master is that you, Farnham thought. Intrigued he plunged forward within eye shot of the window of the shack and spied a women and another figure, the horned one. Climbing to his feet, Farnham, clenching his fists, raised up to the window sill to see a hideous demon, prancing around in a cow suit, singing to Adria, the witch of Tristram a horrible, ghastly tune, known only as mockery. A tone ol Farnham was well familiar with. He shouted at the figure, you listen here ugly, that cow did noting to you and your going to pay for what you did. Before he could unsheath his Dagger of the Pit, the parading demon held up a bottle of milk and poured it on the ground, fiendishly, cackling and pointed at Farnham as the last drop hit the dirt beneath him.
Seconds later Adria turned towards him, smiled and said, Farnham, I am sorry dear, I killed your master and soon all of Tristram will know my wrath, all the milk will dry up and soon I shall be queen of the damned and rule this pathetic backwater filled with serfs and dead villagers.
Farnham, tears flowing, in disbelief and shock, raised both arms, belted out hideous cry's and ran, he ran as far as the cathedral and witness all the cows, gone. He passed Gillian, Ogden and even the heroes house and kept going, for a mere 25 yards back to his rock next a small copse of trees. Throwing his beloved flask aside, he peered into a new vessel, a container for glory and muttered "this isn't the last of Farnham, the Wise"
It was at this point, Game Director Jay Wilson said: "Thats a job well done people, this round is on me"