The goobbue—that massive, lumbering seedkin possessed of a perpetual grin and arms as disproportionately long as its legs are short. Although ordinarily placid when observed in their natural habitat, little short of a stout stone wall will stop one when agitated. Mind you, this has not served to discourage our Ul’dahn neighbors from parading the creatures about in the many opulent celebrations they hold—an impious practice, as I am certain any forestborn would agree. On such occasions these luckless beasts are bound by powerful magicks, lest they get it inside their heads to turn upon their captors.

As if exhibiting goobbues for the dubious pleasure of folk were not in poor enough taste, word has reached my ears of a man who has made it his business to ride them. Aye, mounting the towering seedkins as if they were chocobos; one difference being that a thrown rider could well land within the creature’s razor-lined maw rather than upon the relative comfort of the ground. A thoroughly deserved fate, I am inclined to believe. But this reporter shall set aside personal opinion for the nonce in the name of objective journalism.

By all accounts, the individual in question is a wandering minstrel come to Vylbrand from as yet unknown shores. If rumors can be given credence, he is capable of influencing the humours of goobbues by way of an enchanted horn, one whose distinct sound beckons the creatures and tames them besides.

Much and more regarding the whole affair still eludes my knowing, the goobbue tamer’s true identity for one, the workings of the horn for another. I shall continue my investigations, and would be duly grateful for any morsels of information that adventurers may have come upon in the course of their travels.

And here I put down my quill. Till next time, may the Twelve keep you.