Day Three-Hundred-Eight: Soup is srs bsnss

DANGIT, THEY'RE AT IT AGAIN

Yesterday's nonsense with the fallen house and the squabbling people and the 'highborn are better than lowborn, no wait no they aren’t, go fuck yourselves' debate reached another peak today, 'round dinnertime. We were gathered around Robert's steaming cauldron, waiting for Bora to ladle out grass soup in small bowls (we REALLY need food), when one of the nobles sneezed in the pot.

"Ewwww!" most of the nobles in line exclaimed, speaking as one. "Dump it out and start over!"

"You kiddin' me?" Robert rolled his eyes and dipped his ladle into the cauldron, approximately spooning out and dumping the affected patch. "Don't be such tightasses. Right, lads?"

Robert lifted his spoon to the workers in the crowd. They cheered, some of them mischievously elbowing the nobles. 

"We apologize for enjoying pure soup!" one of the nobles cried, a mousey fella named Bartleby. "This is why nobles are of better stock than you putrid commoners!"

"Go fuck yourself!" Turner the Cook bellowed. "You think you can survive without us, you bloody fart? Just try it!"

"We'll see who" was all Bartleby managed before the crowd swallowed his words. Punches flew, noses collapsed, and, ultimately, Libby waded into the lot to restore order. She was hungry, and wanted everything settled. There are a lot of wounded people in camp as a result, my wife included, though her skinned elbow isn't nearly as bad as the black eyes, twisted noses and strained limbs that she doled out to the rest. I wonder if I should turn her into a sheriff…

The crowd settled down for a little while after that, grumbling over their wounds and soup, though the issue flared up AGAIN when Bartleby purposefully sneezed into the bowl of King Jeffrey's old bannerman. The bannerman retorted by clocking Bartleby in the face with his trumpet, and, once again, Libby set about restoring order with her fists.

Unfortunately, in her haste to get back to her soup, Libby accidentally hurled Harold, who'd been trying to hide from the battle, into one of the framework houses. Down it went.

That was it for me. I'd been watching over the line at my brother's side, and I'd stood by and watched both skirmishes with fear and loathing. The loathing won out over the fear when that house came down.

"SHUT UP!" I yelled, flailing my arms. "SHUUUUUUUUT UUUUUUUUUP! GODS, CAN'T YOU FUCKING PEOPLE LEARN TO GET ALONG?! IT'S SOUP! DRINK YOUR SOUP! STOP TRASHING THE TOWN OR WE'LL NEVER HAVE HOUSES! FRIGGIN' LORDS OF MERCY!"

Everyone stopped in mid-brawl and looked at me. I imagine I was red-faced and fuming, my happy baby tugging on my hair from a backpack slung over my shoulders. (That was almost adorable enough to abate my fury on the spot, but I held on for the sake of solving the problem with my constituents.)

Grudgingly, people apologized. The nobles took their bowls and set up a little campfire around the golden tree in the centre of town, staunching their bloody noses with their napkins. The peasants went back to eating where they'd been, many of them looking quite satisfied with themselves. They, after all, had not been forced to relocate, and that meant a victory.

For them, maybe. Not for me.

I know the problem. The sneezing that started all this is a literal symptom of the problem. People are getting cold. Autumn in these parts is relatively temperate during the day, but it gets hellishly brisk in the evening, and the wagons aren't good enough to warm frozen bodies. We need roofs over our heads, not canvas, and if houses keep getting knocked over half of us are going to freeze to death before we get those roofs.

I need action. Quick, decisive, fearsome action. But what should it be? 

Ugh. Tomorrow I have to order a bunch of people into the woods to see June 'bout getting their wounds fixed up. Hell, maybe I should visit her myself. She's a crazy weirdo - maybe a crazy weirdo answer is what I need.

Flummoxed,

Dragomir the Mayor