(Author's note: Yes, there will be an entry tomorrow. Christmas be damned, Dragomir is every day. There likely won't be any Twitter' or other social messages 'bout it, though - I won't be around in the morning. My bad! It still exists!)
I like my new socks. They are warm. I thought I'd been a liiiiittle jilted, but, no, these new ones are much better than my old pair. The sight of Jeffrey's crumpled face makes me all warm inside. Thanks, bannerman!
That's, uh, that's about the only good thing I have to report for today. Figured I'd get the nice stuff outta the way first. Noooooow we go down to the doldrums, and find out why Pubton is doomed THIS week.
Quite frankly, it's doomed this week for the same reason it was doomed LAST week. We have no food. Aside from winterweed, of course. Got a damned big bumper crop of that. But we need to keep it all for ourselves so we're making very little money selling product to passing merchants, and all that money goes to Pagan, thus preventing us from having any OTHER kinds of food. The occasional animal snagged from the forest provides meaty sustenance, but the woods are kinda barren these days.
You wanna know how desperate we are? You really wanna know? Robert made snow soup the other day. He actually tried to make snow soup. You know what we got in the end? Well, whaddya think we got? HOT WATER, THAT'S WHAT WE GOT.
Yet we still have beer. Dunno where Bora gets it.
I sent Lord B.T. a letter on Friday, asking if he would consider an actual trade agreement. Not just a friendly person-to-person relationship, but an honest-to-god alliance. His reply today was less than optimistic:
'Dear Dragomir,
I'm sorry, but that will not do. We are quite a distance from Pubton, making any trade agreements impractical. I'm not certain that your people would welcome our ambassadors, at any rate, and mine certainly would not accept yours.
All I can suggest is that you move your town somewhere more temperate. I know that is crazy talk, considering all you went through to endear yourself to the owner of the lands, but that area is not conducive to survival. I hope you will take my word on that, though I doubt it will be so.
Yours,
Lord B.T.'
Move? After all his damned advice? MOVE? What the hell kind of a suggestion is THAT? And what does 'conducive to survival' mean? Almost sounds like he knows more than he lets on.
Well. We're not moving. Sure as hell are not moving. People wouldn't AGREE to moving after all we've been through. I've sent Edmund and a few escorts out to try and make ties with other towns, riding on horses we purchased rather dearly this morning. I don't know what I think they'll achieve, but I gave them a list of things we can offer other places in exchange for food.
The longer we go subsisting on the same thing, the sicker and the grumpier people 'round here will get. Winterweed is nutritious, but it's not enough on its own to keep us afloat. Everyone's getting restless… dad has been staging little meetings, I've heard from Bora, and after the elephant costume fiasco, it sounds like Robert's helping him…
Gods, is he actually gonna make a move to take control of Pubton away from me? He's certainly popular enough among the workers… me convincing Pagan to let us stay helped my popularity, but dad getting his ARM lopped off turned him into a superstar…
Argh. Edmund, please, come back with good news.
Sincerely,
Dragomir the Mayor
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