Day Three-Hundred-Thirty: Winding down

Back home today. Arrived at, oh, lunchtime? A little after? Most people looked dazed as they went about their chores, their stomachs full of Robert's fried goat meat sandwiches. I used their lax attention spans to protect myself against questions. 

Questions. Oh, questions. They will come, I know it. Because I, Dragomir, have officially failed in my first real attempt at diplomacy. In retrospect, I failed even more than I realized at the time of the negotiations. If you can call 'em negotiations. Pretty piss-poor effort overall, from Edmund and myself.

Yes! Yes, diary! I blame Edmund! It's hardly all his fault, more my fault than his, but he buggered up! The giant explosion at the end was HIS DOING! Why'd he have to piss off our host by calling him a spy? Granted, the evidence was somewhat compelling, considering how sheepish Pagan had looked when accused of the role, but you don't go around calling people spies in the middle of negotiations. Even I know that. You'd figure a dude who makes his money from getting in the good books of his crowd would UNDERSTAND that.

Nope. Edmund seems quite content that he caught Pagan on a snag. I tried to explain that he ruined any chance of us settling this land issue peacefully, but Ed kept insisting that it was doomed from the start. What a bloody pessimist.

I will accept my share of the blame. If I'd done my job properly, Edmund wouldn't have felt compelled to step in, 'cept maybe to sing my praises as I hammered out a deal with Pagan. I barely even tried to convince him that we could make our stay on his lands lucrative! Damned idiot, I shoulda OPENED with that, not mumbled on and on about names and slaves and stuff! I'm a dunce, and I need a proper diplomat for this kinda shit.

Not Grylock, though. He'd be even worse than me. Don't care if he has years of practice, he's a rude little asshole. So… who? Who could negotiate in my stead whenever this crap crops up?

Bah. I guess I'll think about it later. We're not moving, either way, so the next time I meet with Pagan it won't be a diplomatic function. He's a warrior, he'll be out for blood. Hope we're prepped for that eventuality… maybe I should talk to someone about building a wall…

I'm in bed at the moment, scribbling away while Libby chats with a neighbour. Grayson is propped up on her knee and babbling away in his nonsense baby talk. It sounds less like nonsense every day! I'm so proud. If he'd just stop toppling furniture when no one's around I'd be the happiest daddy in the world.

This also assumes that I have my daughter at my side. Which I don't. She's… still… I don't know what she is. I bet she's safe, somewhere, having murdered her way out of The Baron's clutches, but… I have no way of knowing.

Sigh. I dunno. This Friday seems weirdly anticlimactic. Isn't stuff supposed to happen on these days? The most I can remark on happening today is Barrel's continued petulance… we found him sleeping in a tree yesterday, when we were headed home, and he's been snotty and testy ever since we woke him up… had this weird, unpleasant glint in his eye, as though his stomach was tied up with a severe bout of indigestion… bah. I'll try asking the rats, they seem to know stuff about him.

Hrm. So anti-climactic. But… what else can I add, diary…? 

…

…

OH

I DID GET ANOTHER LETTER

THAT'S SOMETHING

Up 'til now I've used my letters to bitch about my current state of affairs. I've been so rude, not really asking my pen pal about his own circumstances. Fortunately, he decided to fill me in with some of his own woes! Here, I'll write it all down so you can enjoy the letter like I did, diary.

'Dear Dragomir,

I pray all is well with the lord of your lands. I have yet to receive a letter back - doubtless because you're so busy handling the situation - but I couldn't wait any longer. I need to share a problem of my own, with the hopes that you might have some return advice. Mind the boundless presumption!

When I laid the foundations for my community, I did so with the assumed assistance of a young woman. I had high hopes for her. I believed, with some nurturing and guidance, that she would grow into a productive leader. She's so talented, so good at what she does! A prodigy! If anybody could guide my settlement to prosperity and strength, it was her… with a little help from myself while she grew into the role, of course.

But I've been stymied. Not only have I realized since the establishment of our community that she does not care for the wellbeing of her people, I've discovered concrete proof that she is a threat to us. In her adolescent rage she has, erm, let us say 'inconvenienced', no less than four of my people! Four valued, friendly, hard-working souls who did not deserve such treatment! My confidence in this project has been greatly shaken as a consequence, and I've heard vague whispers of mutiny. Small, almost inconsequential, but great things spring from the lowest of places. I'm sure you understand, former guardsman!

I remain confident that, with time, patience and nurturing, this young woman will see the error of her ways and contribute to our burgeoning society. I rather count on it, as we badly need her assistance in the days to come. I know my vagueness must be annoying, but allow me to stress this point: we need her.

I know you have children. Your daughter Eve is renowned for her prowess with a blade, and from what I've heard of Grayson - say hello to him for me! - you sound like a good parent, a good role model. If this were your daughter - pretend that she is Lord Knight Eve, for the sake of visualization - how would you handle the situation? This old man merely wants to steer a troubled youth back onto the right path.

I eagerly await your reply, even if it's one of sympathy and naught else. Until next the quill meets the page!

Lord B.T.'

Poor guy. Sounds like he's in quite a fix. Not sure if I agree with FORCING this anonymous lady to help out if she doesn't wanna, but I'll send him some advice on Monday. I wasn't a spectacular daddy to Eve, but given how she saved my ass, I must have made some kinda impression.

Lights off. I'm tired from walking, and my brain hurts from deciphering Edmund's rhymes for days on end. 'til next week, diary.

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Mayor