Day Sixty-Six: Wandering in progress

Hi, me. Is me. You? Me. You write in self, which is me.

You know? I no know. Is confuse.

Anys! I hads a nice nap. Better place than dusty place with the yellow stuffs. Always want to cough there, is me. But there had rats, and they talks to me, and I say, 'Hi.' And that is I, and those are rats.

Hi, me.

So todays, I want find Drags. Is been long time since he comes me. So I comes to him. Is fair, yes? Drags is nice enough to find me, so nows I finds him. Ratty isn't here to help, so I go help instead. Yes? Yes.

Lonelies. I like when peoples write in me. So I write myself. Isn't same. Different.

Diff-er-ent.

I leave this tree today. I go into town today, and see things I already saw. I see cat, and it hits me; I see other cat, and it hits me, and it hits first cat number one. Then they run off, hitting each other, and I keep going.

Why everyone dressed all weird? Is ghosties and demon thingies everywhere. With bags! What bags? I want bags. Maybe Drags tell me what are bags.

Bags. Drags. Aaaaahaaaa, that called a rhyme.

Drags is here. I can feel him, I can, I can. Is somewhere in middle. I find Drags, then he is write in me again, yes? Yes.

Sinceres,

Diary

Day Sixty-Five: Derp

Where's I?

Don't recognize. Not sure. Where? Don't know. Where Drags? No sure. Where ratty? No sure. Confuse, am I.

Tired now. Go on trip, I will. After big black.

Not been alone before. Always people around. Now? All gone.

Lonely.

Sinceres,

Diary

zzzzz

mmmmrmmmph

smelly

Day Sixty-Four: To the swamp!

It appears that Dragomir's capture is big news in Goblinoster. I have heard many hushed conversations through the cracks in the buildings, discussing his incarceration in the tower. Humans must not come to Goblinoster very often. This gladdens my heart, as it means he is probably still alive.

Probably.

I found the edge of the city earlier today, after a few more scrapes with feline ne'er-do-wells, and found it to be as advertised: a massive swamp, stretching around the edges of the city. The northern road leads onto a series of poorly-maintained boardwalks, stretched over the water, which I can navigate without difficulty…

… though the diary is another matter. It is not quite so lithe as I, and will probably fall into the mire if I try to guide it along the broken planks. This is problematic, as I doubt its frail pages will survive a dunking.

Apologies in advance, Dragomir.

I've decided to leave it in an abandoned squirrel nest in one of the trees near the entrance of the swamp. I will return for it once I've located the witch. It has served me well for company over the last few days, but… what else am I to do? It must remain.

Good luck, diary.

Sincerely,

The Rat

Day Sixty-Three: Feline complications

The reason for the absence of my kind in this town was made abundantly clear last evening, diary, while I slept in that stable. Goblins are overly fond of cats.

As I slumbered I felt a twinge of murderous intent. I immediately awoke and found the slitted eyes of a feline staring down at me, connected to a coiled body that was ready to spring and rip me apart. If I'd stayed asleep for a few more seconds it surely would have.

I burrowed deeper into the hay and under you, diary, before the cat's claws could claim me. From there I addressed my foe:

"Greetings, cat! What business do you have with me?"

"Singular?" the cat meowed, its voice playful and dangerous. "I guess you would be the only rodent in Goblinoster. Still, you don't hear your kind refer to themselves as a single entity too often. A shame, I would like a more robust meal."

"No doubt!" I cried. "You're a skinny, wasted fiend. You could probably stand to eat a whole barrel of my ilk. Though I'd hope that you would choke on our fur as you did."

"Pfft. You're helpless without your kin, vermin. Prepare to meet my stomach." And with that the cat began to claw its way into the straw, searching for me.

Normally the fiend would have been correct. I am, for the most part, rather helpless without other rats to help. The power the colony invested in me to call upon more of us in an emergency was already spent. But I had you, diary, and I commanded you to open as the cat made its way into the hay, searching…

… and when it got close enough, discovering you, I ordered you to close upon its head.

You aren't a strong creation, diary, and your skin doesn't have muscles for crushing bone. That move was more than enough to scare the cat, however, and it leaped out of the hay and bolted from the stable.

"You'd better leave." This from a pony, watching from a nearby stall. "She'll be back. She's a cruel bitch."

"Dogs are bitches."

"Vixen, then."

"That's foxes."

"Mare?"

My ear twitched. "That's… you?"

"Just go already."

I did, after filching a bit of food. Horse chow is not palatable to a rodent, I'm afraid.

We're almost on the outskirts of town. I can smell the swamp.

Sincerely,

The Rat

Day Sixty-Two: Things get weirder

Today I have begun my search for the witch. I can feel her presence, faintly, on the edges of my brain, though she is still quite elusive. If only there were others to help me focus my thoughts…

No matter. You and I are of one flesh, diary - he calls you that, so I might as well - so I commanded you to grow legs. You have been running alongside me throughout the streets of this wet burg, albeit at a somewhat reduced pace. I wish I could leave you behind, but I fear that Dragomir would be distraught if I did. I like the man, so I will do no such thing.

You and I managed to pick our way through the market district, hiding beneath battered tables to avoid detection. Subterfuge amongst these creatures is infuriatingly difficult, as they notice much that humans ignore. Goblins value the darkness, however, and so I think any who spotted you, a book with stubby legs, took you as a trick of the poor light. I certainly hope so, anyway.

We're not far from the northern edge of town now, and we've bedded down in a heap of hay for the night. It's fortunate that goblins use ponies for transportation, and that they garrison their war ponies throughout the town. We might not have found a dry place to hide and sleep otherwise.

Where are others of my kind? I can detect none in this city. I find that very odd indeed.

Sincerely,

The Rat

Day Sixty-One: Under new management

This is an unfortunate turn of events.

We needed Dragomir to revive the people in the castle so they would be ready to block the coming evil. It will rise, with or without their help. We need as many of them prepared to stop the demons as possible.

Dragomir was foolish. In his dazed stupor he tried to steal an entire cooked badger from a market stall. The owner was on him in a flash, and so were the owner's neighbours. It didn't take long for the guards to show up, discover what Dragomir was and drag him away. I'm surprised he was not killed, as every goblin that enters the human castle without authorization is typically butchered.

Rats. We need him. We really do.

It's crucial that we save Dragomir. Or I save Dragomir. I suppose there is only one of me at the moment. Though you count - you are cut of the same cloth, so to speak. I'm glad I can manipulate you into moving on your own. I can hardly carry you myself.

I will have to look for help. Perhaps the witch can aid me? She knows of our kind. Perhaps she can even point out others like me with whom I can form another collective. I should have kept the one I summoned in the field together. That was a one-time deal, this far away from my kin...

Sigh. Nothing is simple with this man.

Sincerely,

The Rat

Sigh.

Dragomir got caught.

Day Sixty: I see stars, and they're all vomiting

I can't move any further, diary. I'm so tired, and so hungry, and I think drinking the rainwater is making me sick. Maybe I should stop drinking it out of the puddles and start drinking it as it falls from the sky…? But I don't want to show my face…

I'm still near the market district. There are no sheds to hide in here, so I'm huddled under a big pile of old wine barrels. Had to shoo some weird reptilian thing away that was living under here first. Hope it doesn't come back for revenge - I don't have a chance of killing it. Best I could do is annoy it with my raspy breathing and bad breath.

I'm feeling really bleh, diary. My head burns, probably from being wet for days on end, and I can't concentrate. My legs and my arms and my chest all hurt. It's like I've been running for days and only just decided to stop for a break. I'm not a marathon runner, so I don't know if this is ACTUALLY what running for days feels like, but I have a sneaking suspicion.

At least I can still write. My writing hand is alive and kickin'. Fingerin'. Whatever a hand does that's like kicking, but is for fingers instead. Yeargh, this makes no sense!

But, uh, yeah. I need to steal some food from the market. I don't think I have a choice. The place is huge, and there are lots of goblins wandering around, so the chances that I'll get caught filching are small. I just need a little something to get my body going again… even licking discarded food out of the mud would do...

Wish me luck, diary. I'm leaving you here. In case I get caught. Don't want the goblins to know what I'm up to. Dunno why - that might keep me out of trouble - but it seems like a good idea.

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Adventurer

Day Fifty-Nine: Stubby stalking

I ditched the armour today, diary. I can't wear it anymore. It's too heavy. I've hidden it in the shed, so hopefully the owner doesn't find it and steal it or something. He hasn't found me after all this time, so my chances are probably good... ish.

I really needed to get to June, which meant more walking on my knees like a hobbly cripple, so I rooted around in the shed for something soft to put on my knees. Eventually I found a sack of old, spongy mushrooms, and I lined the bottom of my greaves (the only things I kept) with 'em. They've worked pretty good so far, keeping my legs from scraping on the metal, but they're getting churned up by my knees. So this is only a temporary solution.

And potentially a new way to prepare mushrooms.

Sigh.

Stomach still grumbling away, you tucked as deep under my cloak as I could get you, my… rat… hidden in my cloak - it still squeaks every now and then! - I set out. And when I did I realized something surprising: Philip is gone. I don't know where he is, but he's buggered off somewhere, which I guess isn't the worst thing in the world. He never provided that great of company.

... but he was still company. Even as a ghost. Hope he enjoys living in Goblinoster. (Or maybe he just doesn't like my rat, and he's waiting for me to eat it. Who knows.)

But yeah. Goblinoster. I'd seen a bit of it, but it wasn't until I spotted the big tower sticking out of the landscape in the distance that I really noticed the town. The goblins are fans of pointy architecture, which is probably to make their buildings look a bit bigger than reality. Everything is covered in sweeping, curving points, and most of the structures end in rough spires at the top. A little like onions. I don't think they'd appreciate that comparison, though.

And, like I said before, the town is laid out very badly. Nothing makes sense here. I got lost for a good hour, despite knowing roughly where I had to go, because I kept turning down the wrong streets and getting redirected away from the big castle-tower thing in the middle of town. I couldn't ask anybody for directions, 'cause I didn't wanna attract too much attention to myself. Thank the gods that most goblins walk around with their faces covered in cloaks, which means I don't stick out so much.

I've stopped in the market district for now. It's much drier here. The goblins have a ton of interweaving tarps set up over their stands to keep the rain out, with a neat drainage system that leaks the water off the tarps and into the swamp surrounding the northern half of the town. Makes sense.

Oh yeah, did I mention that the northern half of the town is surrounded by a swamp? And that parts of it actually extend into the swamp? Bad planning here, I tell you. This whole place is liable to sink some day.

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Adventurer

Day Fifty-Eight: Old women make great spies

June? What the hell kind of a name is June for a witch?

I should question who wrote in my diary, but what's the point? They'll probably keep doing it, and I'll never find out the truth anyway. So meh. I don't care anymore. If I ever get back home, I'll just leave this stupid diary out where EVERYBODY can read it. And they can contribute, for all I care. Nothing is sacred!

Sorry, diary. You're not stupid. You smell like my socks, but you're not stupid.

Anyway. That information proved good, 'cause I finally decided to enter the city today and ask. The tool shed had an especially long tarp that I could use for a cloak, so I hung it over my old one and trudged into town. I walked on my knees the whole time to give myself the appearance of an especially tall goblin. No one seemed to notice, but the slow trudging hurt my knees after a while. I'll have to make something to protect 'em.

But yeah. It was good info. I didn't wanna ask anybody on the streets, 'cause that would be kinda weird, so I found a tavern - thought it was a tavern, anyway, though I found out later that it was a tea shop… whaddya expect, I can't read goblin - and asked around.

Or, okay, I asked one person. The bartender. (Teatender. Whatever.) He knew who I meant right away.

"June? Aye, 'course I know her. The healer witch. Need her for those ungainly stumps o' yours, old woman?"

I distinctly remember twitching. I sound like an old goblin woman? "Erm, yes. Yes I do. Terrible pain in this rain, you know?"

"Might wanna live somewhere else, then, if rain's a problem," the teatender snorted. "Lives on the outskirts, she does. North side o' town. Go 'round the castle 'n you'll find her shack in the swamp. Gonna order somethin', or you happy to just mess up m'floors all day?"

I really, really wanted to order something, because I've been surviving off… rain water and mud. But I didn't have any money. So I left. Sigh.

(Lucky me that the bartender didn't think to question my use of English. I only just caught that now. Eep, I nearly fucked myself over.)

I'm damn tired from the short walk down the street, so now I'm back in the shed, recovering. My body can't take much more of this, diary. I really need something to eat. I'd pretend to be a beggar, but I think all the rain would drown me. Drowning ain't much good to my predicament.

Though it would get me out of this mess...

But then everybody in the castle would die...

Including Libby...

And then she'd haunt me in hell.

Man.

My stomach sounds like a t-rex,

Dragomir the Adventurer

Hey

Dragomir,

The witch's name is June. Ask for June.

Day Fifty-Seven: In da shed, yo

I'm really hungry, diary. I think I might need to eat some food.

I'm still stuck in the shed on the outskirts of Goblinoster. Don't judge me as a wuss, 'cause I HAVE left, but there's nothing I can eat around here. I don't know where to find anything edible. This town isn't predictable like the castle, from what I've seen.

The constant rain makes Goblinoster tough enough to navigate. It comes down pretty hard all the time, turning the roads into a constant, muddy mess. The goblins made it even tougher, 'cause the streets beyond the main gate - and the main gate is, like, a wire fence on either sides of the road - look like they have no sense of organization. In one row of houses I saw a doctor's office, three residences, a slaughterhouse, and a junkyard. Whoever built this place must be crazy in the head.

Well, actually, duh. Of course. They're a goblin. Goblins are idiots. And crazy. Maybe it's a height thing?

I've had to stick to the side streets and the alleyways to avoid getting caught, which is real tough when you yourself have trouble seeing the people that might see you. Know what I mean? Goblins are short, and their cloaks blend 'em into the scenery. And the rain! The rain blocks out the sound of footsteps! Why these miserable little creeps would wanna live in this mess of a land, I do not know.

I don't know where to go, diary. I'm afraid to show myself and start asking questions, 'cause even though we're, like, 'officially' allies with the goblins, they did attack us. Killed some of us. Wounded a lot more. Messed up our castle pretty good. What kind of a reception can I expect? We've been killing their kind for ages. Not likely they're gonna be happy to see me, alliance or no.

Gah. I'm reeeeeeally hungry, diary. I wish I knew where to start in this seedy dump. Witches shouldn't be hard to find!

Stomach growling,

Dragomir the Adventurer

Day Fifty-Six: Goblinoster ho!

I should probably describe what happened on Friday. That last entry... confusing? No doubt.

As you remember, diary, I'd been saved from a squad of genteel zombies by a rat that had been living in my armour. Once the rat went back inside, I just... lay there. In the canyon. What was I supposed to do? My feet were a mess. I had no food or water, so I was really weak. I needed a break. That break turned into a short nap. And that nap, uh, full blown sleep.

When I woke up hours later, I found myself on this... this... bed of rats. There were hundreds of them, and they were carrying me across the plains on their. Another batch off to the left had my armour. I don't know how they got it off me, and I shudder to think of it. Rats made me naked, diary. That's weird.

I didn't know what to say or what to do. How do you react to a horde of rats, creatures you've been eating for years, suddenly helping you for no reason? They might have been taking me off to eat me in a cave or something, true, but I didn't think so. And, nope, they eventually dropped me off in the middle of a field a skittered away, into the rain.

As it turns out, that field was RIGHT IN FRONT of Goblinoster. Hence the rain. Pretty sweet, eh? Pretty sweet.

Once all the rats were gone - I don't think that includes my little friend in my armour, who I assume was somehow responsible for the trip - I tried to stand. And I could! My legs were okay! Still sore, but I think the rats massaged my feet the whole way. What nice little critters. I won't be eating rats anymore.

Er. You're made out of rat skin, diary. I hope they don't hold that against me.

So yeah. There I was at Goblinoster, confused as hell and quite wet, sitting on the outskirts of town, and... well, okay, that's pretty much where I am now. I don't wanna go inside. Would you enter a city full of goblins without a plan? Especially if you were a human, their least favourite race of all time?

(Now I'm picturing you as a human, diary. I think you would have brown hair. In a ponytail. And a mustache. Don't know why. That just seems 'you'.)

Right now I'm hiding in a little tool shed. Emphasis on little, 'cause goblins are tiny folk. I still have my cloak, so my armour doesn't stick out, but I'm gonna be damn visible as soon as I enter the town. The only thing I probably resemble is a troll when it comes to height, and even then I'll be a wimpy troll. They're huge. Plus they're all controlled by the army, so wouldn't masquerading as one get me arrested and trapped and stuff?

I'll keep you posted, diary. Right now I'm just gonna rest a bit longer. I'm really tired.

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Adventurer

It's like being back home again

So there's this massive pack of rats under me and it's taking me somewhere. It's really fucking creepy, and I'm so tired that all I can do is tell you that there's a massive pack of rats under me.

They must have strong backs.

Have a good weekend, diary. I have no idea where we'll be on Monday.

Day Fifty-Five: Get outta there, varmint

We're... not screwed?

Nope. Surprisingly not. I was saved at the last moment, as the capture squad closed in, by the... weirdest thing imaginable...

I'd been walking for a couple hours... maybe more than just a couple, since I had about a thousand blisters on my feet... when I stumbled into a canyon. I couldn't walk anymore. I HAD to have a break, diary. So I collapsed, crawled into the canyon and tried to hide as best I could. I didn't figure any stupid zombies would be able to find me.

Yeah. I was so wrong.

I couldn't sleep 'cause I was paranoid about my supposed bride sneaking up and straddling me or something, so I sat and watched the canyon entrance. I guess my eyes weren't so good at that point, though, or maybe it's 'cause it was night time, but I eventually noticed that there was a squad of zombies getting reeeeeeally close.

Like, right outside the little canyon close. Like, 'I'm trapped' close.

They saw me right away. A ghost floating over my head made hiding impossible. Plus they had some sort of weird mobile telescope thing that they were using to follow my tracks on the ground. Guess they can't bend over without falling apart, so they'd need something like that to track people.

Meh. I'll blame it more on Philip. He keeps scribbling in you, diary.

Anyway. I had just enough time to write the last message before they were on me. What else could I do? My legs were so damn sore. I sat there and stared at 'em while they discussed carrying me back to their princess. I kept my mouth shut and left my legs all floppy, so they figured my legs were broken. One of 'em even said that might be helpful, 'cause they wouldn't have to put a collar on me when they got back to camp! The hell kind of a marriage is that?!

I was all prepped and ready to go, sure that I'd never see home again... sure that I was gonna die once that woman... did... stuff... to me... but then the oddest thing happened. I discovered what was making all the squeaking noise through my trip:

A rat crawled out of my armour.

The zombies took one look at the rat and backed away. Even Philip seemed squeamish, which is no surprise since the rats at the castle hated him before.

The rat watched them for a while, not moving from my shoulder, and eventually the zombies wandered away. No explanation, though one did... seem to bow... well, either way, I guess that's the end of my zombie problem? Maybe?

The rat didn't offer a reason for all this happening, and eventually it crawled back in my armour. Normally I might consider eating lowly vermin, what with the giant knot of hunger in my stomach, but since this little guy had... somehow saved my life? I wasn't about to do anything to him.

Yeesh. I had a rat on me for days and I didn't even know it.

Well, this is all still kinda moot, diary. I can't move, and Goblinoster is still a long ways away. I think. I dunno. Doesn't matter. It could be fifteen feet away and I'd still be stuck in this box canyon.

Sigh. I'm gonna sleep. Hope something big doesn't eat me over the weekend. I think it's Friday, isn't it? Oh, who cares.

Night night,

Dragomir the Adventurer

sigh

Shit. They have me cornered in a box canyon thing, and I can't climb the walls 'cause I'm so tired. I only have time and energy for this entry.

I think we're screwed again, diary. Sorry. Guess the zombie princess is gonna molest me to death after all.

Day Fifty-Four: My sores have sores, and they, too, have their own collection of sores

I'm still on the run, diary. Only got you and the armour as companions... well, aside from Philip... but he's dead, and not at all helpful, so... should he count? I don't think so.

I've been on the move all day. My legs are exhausted. Taking this stupid armour was such a dumb idea. I keep seeing the zombies on the horizon, though - 'least I THINK I see them - so I don't have much choice. I can't stop or they're gonna take me, and if they do somehow catch up I can use the extra protection. Zombies never stop shambling 'til they get what they want, so I hear.

Gah. I want to stop. I'm so tired. Why am I out here again? Why am I not sleeping in my cramped little bed back at the castle?

Right. Because I infected the place with some plague. I guess that's a pretty good reason.

What the hell am I supposed to do once I get to Goblinoster? I don't know anybody there. I don't even know the name of the witch I'm supposed to find 'cause I didn't bother to ask when I left. What if there are lots of witches? There could be an entire freaking district of witches, for all I know. The witches' guild! Every second gods-be-damned goblin is a fucking witch! Wouldn't that just be my luck!

Between this and the gods-be-damned squeaking, well, I'm just having an awful day, diary. Pure misery. I can't even look at my feet, 'cause I bet my boots are in tatters from all this walking. Hell, I KNOW they're in tatters, 'cause grass keeps poking at my big toes.

Off to walk some more. I shouldn't have even stopped for this quick entry. You're my only source of consolation, diary.

Sigh,

Dragomir the Tired

Day Fifty-Three: You can't escape love

Crap. Crap crap crap. I'm in trouble, diary. Can't I ever stay OUT of trouble for once? Can't I have a completely normal day? Why must screwed up nonsense ALWAYS HAPPEN TO ME?

So I was walking. Everything was fairly normal. I was okay. Happy, even, that I was back on track to finding this Goblinoster witch. I really wanna get home. All was well, even if water was getting a little scarce. I'd seen a small lake in the distance, so I knew that wasn't going to be an issue.

And, then, zombies. Zombies! Freaking zombies! They ambushed me!

It was the same clan of 'em as the last week. One of their scout teams had been following me - which means I move REALLY slowly, diary, which I can't help 'cause my boots aren't doing so good and this royal armour is weighing me down, but anyway - and they jumped me when I was getting close to the top a hill. I was singing 'Huggle Your Merry Man', and I missed their moans. The chorus is loud.

"You should not have left, old chap," one of them said, shoving my face into the ground.

"W... why?" I did my best not to barf. His hands smelled like old cheese, left in the sun for a month and dipped in rancid pickle brine.

"You're meant to marry the chief's daughter, of course. You've insulted her rather badly. You know that, don't you, old bean?"

"No! I'm married already! Lemme go!"

He shook his head. His ear fell off and pinged my helmet. "Not yet, you aren't. First you have to consummate the marriage. Come, we'll take you back and set things to rights. Pip pip!"

I argued some more, but he and his gang of friends weren't interested in my excuses. They glared blankly through their monocles, grinding their teeth and discussing the weather in hushed tones.

So what else could I do but punch him in the arm?

As soon as I did his grip gave, and I managed to roll away as the zombie tumbled. The other zombies lurched at me, but they're really slow, so, yeah, I got away. Even sent one of 'em flying down the hill alongside me as I ran. He kept shaking his fist as he rolled. That was kinda funny.

... but I lost all my stuff. Again.

Just have the armour on my back. And now I guess I have an entire tribe of zombies on my tail. They don't wanna eat me anymore, but getting married to some... undead... girl... is not my cup of tea. I don't know what she wanted to do beyond kissing, but I'll have no part of it! Not if Philip's dirty pictures are accurate!

I really hope this is just a zombie thing. Seems... weird... to try it with living people.

Shit shit shit,

Dragomir the Adventurer

Day Fifty-Two: Festivities of the damned

I spent a night in a camp full of zombies, diary. It was... unpleasant. And that's an understatement.

Like I said, once the zombies learned I was out-of-bounds, they became real friendly. A bit... too friendly, for my tastes, 'cause they made me the center of attention. I had to participate in every little ritual during their day of thanks, so whenever something was going on I was right in the thick of things. Like, uh:

- Dressing up as an ancient zombie chief and participating in a silly play
- Sitting at the front table and playing a game of chess with the chief, which made no sense to me at all
- Accepting the first piece of raw marmot offered at the table, and eating it while everybody watched - I vomited SO MUCH
- Joining in the 'ahhhhhhhh' ceremony, where everybody just stands around and moans - we did that for an HOUR
- Having the first dance with the chief's daughter - I kinda ripped off one of her fingers by accident, which they took as a sign of impending marriage
- And, uh, um, er, spending my first night with my new bride, trying to keep her off of me... this was the most horrifying event of my life, diary, as some disheveled, ugly, rotting girl tried to have her way with me

Don't tell Libby about that last part, diary. I pray to the gods she never reads you. I hope NOBODY reads you. Ugh, my skin still crawls.

So now I'm on the run. I think I may have offended the zombies by taking off in the middle of the night. Fortunately I got all my gear back, and they had some leftover food from some goblins they'd ambushed. Better than eating rotten zombie food. Yay for thievery? (Is that thievery if you steal from murderers?)

All that said and done and stuff, and after sleeping in a little cave I found, I'm on my way again. The goblin tracks are still fresh, so getting to Goblinoster hopefully won't be that tough. My map's useless 'cause I haven't a clue where I am anymore, so these better be the right tracks. Otherwise... who knows where I'll wind up.

Oh, and Philip is still here. He watched everything in the zombie camp. Keeps drawing lewd pictures of an undead girl jumping me. I hate Philip.

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Adventurer

Day Fifty-One: Invited to dinner

Hi, diary. Yeah, I'm still alive. No, I didn't let myself fall out of the tree. I just... fell out of the tree. See the difference? One's voluntary, one ain't.

Point being, I'm not dead. Surprise!

I woke up this morning sitting in a chair. According to the zombies I'd swung around the tree branch I was clinging to like a sloth, in my sleep, hanging just within reach of their hands. They pulled me down...

... and then set me at a big, beat-up table. Now I have really gross-looking food in front of me. I don't think they like that I'm writing at the table, because they keep whispering about "atrocious manners", but... well, whatever. They kept talking about eating me, so I'll write wherever I want. Nuts to table manners.

Why am I not dead? I have no idea, diary. They said something about 'The First Ones' wanting me alive. Who the First Ones are, I have no idea. The zombies are tight-lipped, which is impressive considering most of 'em don't have lips. They WERE going to eat me, but now I'm out-of-bounds.

That's cool. Somebody out there likes me. I'm fine with that. Wish I knew who it was who saved me, but, hey. Maybe it's the gods? I won't look a gift emu in the beak.

So yeah. It's apparently a day of giving thanks among the zombies, so they've invited me to their table as some kinda guest of honour. And their chief, a badly-rotting dude with no teeth and a big, fluffy white wig, says I can stay with them as long as I want. They actually seem pretty nice.

Don't think that means they're wooing me or anything, though, diary. I am gettin' the heeeeeeell outta here at my earliest possible convenience.

Talk to you later, diary. I have to somehow force myself to eat some putrefied deer. I don't wanna refuse my hosts, 'cause, uh, they could change their minds about not eating me. They're pretty harsh on rudeness. Eep.

Really wishing 'The First Ones' had decided to save me earlier so I didn't have to spend a week in a tree,

Dragomir the Adventurer

Ahem.

Do not worry. We will not let Dragomir be eaten. He is a good man.

Squeak squeak.

Day Fifty: This tree is chafing my butt

Philip won’t help me. The squeaking won’t stop. I can’t go down. The zombies are watching. One of them keeps telling me this is a ‘jolly good chase’. I hate that zombie. I think he's a stuck up prig, pip pip.

What did I just say? Don't know. They're getting in my head. It's painful. And it makes no sense. But it does. But... but.

But.

I think I might die. I’m so thirsty. There should be rain right now, but I haven’t seen any for days. Maybe the gods are punishing me for burning down a forest? Or poisoning an entire castle? Or fathering a homicidal baby? I guess I’ve done a lot of things wrong, diary. Though you can't blame me for fathering a homicidal maniac, I didn't even DO anything to DO that.

Only thing I’ve done right lately is write in you every day I’m awake. That’s pretty good, isn’t it? Worth redemption?

I guess I’ll tell you about the first time I got caught up a tree. Back home.

My dad was in the silo feeding the animals, so he told me to get lost and find something else to do. That was fine with me. I’d been standing in front of the silo, asleep, for, I dunno, three hours? Four? I’m not good at telling time with a sundial. So off I went.

Before I knew it, diary, there was this big kerfuffle in the silo, and when I looked back from across the farm I saw a bull charging out the entrance. I knew him by reputation. Rowdy Pete. Toughest animal on the farm, and he was raging mad, foam flying out of his mouth in big spurts. I found out later that my dad was drunk, and had tried to, er, milk Pete. Ouch. No wonder the bull ripped off his arm.

(Personally, I think it was mad ‘cause he kept it in a silo. None of the animals could have enjoyed living in a big tube all day. Aren’t you supposed to keep livestock in barns? My dad maybe wasn’t the best farmer. We did okay, though.)

Pete sees me, and since he's steaming angry he comes flying across the field at me. I didn’t know what to do, so I started running, and before I knew it I was up a tree, the bull smashing its horns into the trunk. I thought for sure I was gonna fall out, and when my dad’s arm flopped up onto the branch beside me I almost passed out. Kid you not, diary.

Er. Looking back to Monday, maybe there was SOME threat of having the flesh flayed from my skin. Though more likely I woulda gotten a horn to the gut if I’d fallen out. Harsh life I led, and lead, and will lead in the future, depending on how much longer it lasts.

It was scary staring at that bull, diary. I’d seen him dozens of times before, but this time he had something in his eyes. Real emotion. Every time he looked at me it was like he was saying ‘I’m gonna run you through, kid. I’m gonna run you down.'

Kinda like the time with the bandit. But I won’t talk about that.

Eventually the bull calmed down, and the town guard guys steered it back to the silo. We had it for dinner the next day. My dad got the biggest share, and he made me cut his meat for him. Somehow it all became my fault, even though my dad was the one that drunkenly grabbed Pete's thinger.

So, at the end of the day, after all the terror and pants wetting and slivers in my thighs that whole experience left me with one gaping question that needed to be answered, one that that has bothered me to this day:

How come I can pick up cutlery when I can’t grab a weapon? That’s just no fair.

I'm gonna be blacking out for the weekend in a couple hours. If I wake up on Monday and there are still zombies all around, maybe I’ll just fall out of the tree and let ‘em eat me. Sitting up here is depressing.

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Adventurer

Day Forty-Nine: A lovely tale

I’ve got a better story about when I was a kid, diary. You’ll love this one, I promise. I actually come out on top! Or I'm not on the bottom! That's as good a reason as any to enjoy a story.

As you can imagine, Robert was the cook on our farm. Whenever my dad got done with his chores he would bring Robert a few liters of the milk he’d yanked out of our animals, and Robert would whip up awesome milkshakes for everyone. I dunno how he did it, but he could make eel’s milk taste like strawberries, which is especially amazing since strawberries don’t grow anywhere near York. I’ve never even tasted a strawberry, so how would I know in the first place? Really amazing stuff.

Anyway, Robert being Robert, he eventually got tired of getting the same old milk or the same old meat day after day, and he wanted to catch something better. (Maybe this is where that stupid plan to catch elephants comes from.) He studied up on the migrations going through the area, and decided that he would try snagging toads. I dunno why toads, but Robert always had odd tastes when it came to his own food.

Just like today I took any excuse to get away from where I’d been told to stand, so I went with Robert to the swamps around the town, where toads are most likely to migrate. Robert’s got a big net and I’ve got a bag, and he tells me to open the bag any time he catches a toad so he can dump it in.

“Robert,” I ask him, “should we be going into the swamps? Dad always said we should avoid ‘em. We could sink.”

“Dragomir,” he replies, “why do you think I put these buckets on my feet?”

“I was wondering about that.”

“You ever seen a bucket tossed in water?”

“Sure, every time I have to go to the well.”

“What happens to the bucket?”

“It sinks. Then I get water and take it-“

“Nu uh, buckets on water float.”

“They do not.”

“Do so! My bucket always floats. So they must all float.”

“Your bucket’s made outta really light wood. The ones on your feet are metal.”

“It’s the same difference. You’re so dumb, Dragomir. Just watch.”

So Robert sank into the mud as soon as he stepped in, and I saved him. Let him grab onto my bag and pulled him out. We never did catch any toads, 'cause Robert was also a big wuss back then, and he started to cry.

That was a pretty good story, wasn’t it? I came out on top. Kinda. Though my mom did hit me ‘cause I wasn’t watching the cows and an orc stole three of them... hum. I guess I coulda left that part out.

Still zombies, diary. I’m getting hungry. Almost out of food. And water – that’s the real problem. I could use a drink.

Stop all that squeaking, whatever you are,

Dragomir the Adventurer

Day Forty-Eight: How electrifying

Nothing’s changed since yesterday, diary. The zombies are still staring at me, though now they’re talking more. I can’t understand most of what they’re saying... one just called me a ‘bally nincompoop’... he’s got some banjo-looking thing, so I don’t know if I should take him seriously.

I also don’t know what a ‘bally nincompoop’ is. Another one called me a ‘daft retard’ a while ago so I’ll assume 'bally' is bad.

I can’t give you any new details, diary, so I’ll tell you a story instead. It’s about when I was young. I haven’t said much about my childhood, mainly ‘cause it wasn’t that great. It was at least better than being stuck in a tree, surrounded by polite flesh eaters.

I grew up in a little town called York, not far from the borders of the Imperium. We were under the protection of a local lord and his band of soldiers, which was a pretty good deal: he gave us walls to defend the town, plenty of room for farming, and a big tower that watched over everything.

(‘course, he also had cannons attached to the tower, and he’d fire them off whenever he thought there was an incoming invasion. I don’t even wanna think about how many times we had to rebuild our silo.)

Anyway. My dad was a farmer, as you can imagine, who mostly bred animals. Cows were his specialty, though he had some chickens and eels and marmots and whatnot. You know, the usual stuff you’d find on a farm. And since I wasn’t good at much, he usually made me sit and watch him do the work. That’s why I ended up being Dragomir the Guard. I kept my eye on stuff.

So this one day he’s milking the eels, and as usual I’m standing guard at the front of the silo, looking for thieves, when he tells me to come inside. He wants to show me something, he says, and when I get in there he tells me to take hold of one of the eels. So I do.

Then it shocks me.

He tells me I’m an idiot and sends me back outside. I think he was testing to see if I remembered that we owned electric eels. I didn’t put on any rubber gloves, so yeah, I guess I forgot. Zap.

I wish I could say 'in retrospect' that my dad was an ass, and that I had a happy childhood. But no. I knew from the day I was born that he sucked.

That wasn’t a great story, was it, diary? Sigh.

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Adventurer

Day Forty-Seven: What ho, chap

Turns out zombies don’t like to be peed on.

When I, ah, relieved myself, one of them shook his fist and told me to “Lay off, you brute!”. Or something like that. Then he threw his pancreas at me. I think it was his pancreas, anyway. The only biology lessons I’ve ever gotten are from watching people get shredded on the Neck, and the flying bits aren't labelled.

Though it would be handy if they were.

I was a little surprised to hear a zombie talk. I didn’t know they could talk at all. Their vocabulary up ‘til then was a bunch of groans and grunts. This guy had a monocle on, though, so maybe he was just the leader of the bunch...? Oh, wait, no. It looks like they all have monocles. And a different one’s asking if I would be so kind as to come down for a few moments so they can pick my brain about some pressing issues.

Yeah, I bet that’s what they want.

Man. I didn’t sign up for this, diary. Being an adventurer is tough. Granted, most guys would probably have either sliced these zombies to pieces or been eaten by now, but I’m not most guys. I’m not courageous and I'm not a good fighter. I'm also not dumb enough to try to run away. I’m just Dragomir. If these zombies ever do leave... maybe I should go home...?

But, no. I can’t go home. I’m on a mission, for my darling wife and child. They both need me to succeed, even if one thinks I’m a lazy lout and the other... well, Eve probably doesn’t even know I’m her father. I bet I'm just another target to her. Better than being livestock, I guess - she kills AND eats them.

I miss home. Home was so much simpler. Get smacked around by dad, do a bit of farm work, then go out and play. No monsters, no weird squeaking sound, no ghosts flipping zombies’ coattails. Just... home.

(I should probably tell Philip to stop doing that, he’s getting the zombies all riled up.)

Imagine if I'd raised Eve on a farm, with Libby. Dragomir the Farmer. Tend to the fields, feed the animals, teach Eve not to EAT the animals... that woulda been the life. Be protected by some lord rather than have to protect the lord myself. And protect the lord rather badly, in my case.

Guess that ain't happening now.

Talk to you later, diary. I’m hungry.

Sigh,

Dragomir the Adventurer

Day Forty-Six: Treehugger

That’s the first weekend I’ve spent in a tree, diary. It wasn’t much different than other weekends – just a brief period of comfortable blackness – but the fact that I woke up surrounded by zombies didn’t exactly make my day.

You may not know much about zombies, diary, so I’ll tell you what I’ve heard. Zombies are the roaming legions of the undead. They scour the world seasonally, moving from place to place on a predictable schedule. A couple months ago they were outside my hometown. Right now they’re in my neck of the woods. Aren’t I lucky?

Zombies are gross. For example, the guy who’s staring at me while I write has half a face. The rest of his body is falling apart. He can’t climb the tree because he’s so wretched, thank god. If I had armour on I could probably wade through the crowd of zombies without much trouble. Just push ‘em aside. Their limbs are pretty dang feeble.

But, er, I don’t have my armour on. You think I could climb this tree in royal guard armour? Not likely. It’s somewhere in the camp, surrounded by zombies. Philip’s down there somewhere, too, only the zombies don’t care about him. He’s already a ghost. He's good at annoying them by sprinkling tree ash on their heads, but that's all.

Could I go down and get the rest of my stuff? No. Why? Zombies eat people. Then I become a zombie. I think that's how it works. If not then I become a ghost, and that ain't much better.

All I have up here is my pack. I managed to grab all the food and hoist it onto my back before I came up. So at least I can survive for a while, and hopefully the zombies will go away while I wait. Not likely – they’re supposed to be more stubborn than rocks, and can wait forever – but I can hope, diary.

This reminds me of the time I got stuck in a tree back home. Only there wasn’t the threat of having my skin ripped from my body if I came down. I guess that makes for a fairly large difference, diary.

Sigh. What’s an adventurer supposed to do? I don’t know if I should be terrified or bored. Maybe both?

I need to pee,

Dragomir the Adventurer