Day Three-Thirty-Two: And your little dog too

That message was carved into the side of the pub this morning. Carved, we think, by the giant chunk of wood sitting astride the pub's wall, ripped straight out of one of the wagons. The poor wagon is now pretty much useless.

Pagan. That asshole is doing this somehow. He wants us off his land badly enough that he's siccing animals on Pubton. Short of keeping watchers up all night to scare away the vandals, I'm not sure what we can do to stop him.

I spent the night in one of the cleared areas of the pub, dreaming of a band of flying beavers that moved from house to house, gnawing apart the supports and cackling gleefully. When I woke up I discovered that the truth may not have been far from that, as two more houses had collapsed, as well as several animal pens. None of our domesticated stock was harmed, though the chickens and cows were spooked enough that they wouldn't give eggs or milk or whatever. Blargh.

Also: poo. SO MUCH POO. Pagan must figure shit will force us to leave. He may be right in that, 'cause Pubton smells like week-old casserole. Y'know, after it's been pooed out. Unbearable.

After setting a watch of peasants and nobles, as well as sending hunters into the woods to search for the animals that did all this, I stalked to the edge of town, hunted through the tall grass to find the hole leading to the rat warrens, and slipped inside.

Philip was waiting for me. RIGHT at the entrance. I very nearly contributed to the town's collection of poo.

"HOLY GODS!" I cried, falling back onto the dirt. "Philip, cripes, don't DO that, man! You are still a bloody ghost, y'know!"

Philip stared moodily at me, his indistinct eyes rippling to one side as he shrugged. His wavering form vanished, and the dirt at my feet parted in a thin line that slid into the darkness. His way of leading me on. Creepy, CREEPY bastard.

I followed the line to the base of the golden tree, its roots and glaringly bright as ever, and found the rats waiting for me in a small group. I'm still surprised by how grey and white their coats look now, and they seem perpetually exhausted. Considering how bright the damned tree is, they probably don't get much sleep. Guess that's the rodent equivalent of bags under your eyes.

I'd brought you along, diary, and I set you down and opened you to a blank page. "Hey, uh, guys. You happen to know what the HELL is going on in Pubton?"

The rats nodded.

I swallowed. "Okay. Um, care to… explain? Maybe tell me how to handle the situation?"

The rats looked at each other for a few seconds, communing through small chitters I couldn't understand. I've never seen them talk like that. Very weird. Eventually one stepped forward, set its paws on the edge of your open page, diary, and said…

… nothing. Not in rat language, not by writing in you, not even writing in the dirt. All it did was shrug.

I glowered. "Oh, don't give me that shit again. You were all mysterious 'n stuff before 'cause The Baron was fucking with you, right? Well he ain't here anymore, and you can't use that excuse. WHAT the HELL is GOING ON?"

Another tiny shrug. The rat scurried back to its group as the whole lot dispersed, vanishing into the underbelly of the tree.

"YEARGH!" I screamed, or something close to that. "YOU BASTARDS ARE STILL NO HELP!"

So that didn't work.

Pubton is falling apart, and though we can repair it faster than these mystery animals can do their damage, I'm not sure it's worth the trouble. Might actually be easier if we left.

But…

I don't wanna…

I like it here…

If Pagan really is behind this shit, we'll have to appease him somehow. I'll hold a town meeting tomorrow to discuss our options. I'm sure we can produce SOMETHING that'll catch Pagan's fancy… stupid frikkin' knight…

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Mayor