Toetools of Infamy
[Dementia, I blame you for this newfound addiction.]
This being the diary of Dodók Kuletber, pickmistress of Ninlòr Sedish, "Toetools of Infamy"
25th Felsite, 202, Late Spring
I suppose I should begin keeping a diary of this place now that it seems we're here to stay for a while. The twenty-four new useless migrants who just moved in during our second spring here at Toetools seem to ensure that much. It's a good thing we seven original prospectors cleared the nearby forest for wood when we moved in, before that damn kobold made off with our only steel axe, else there wouldn't be enough material to create beds for all these louts. Still, I suppose we should keep our just-arrived soap and cheese makers, millers and tanners, rangers and animal vivisectionists happy while we force them to do real work. I mean, we have no milk, so what the fuck do we need with a cheese maker? Stone detail for you, my lass.
At least there was one miner amongst the rabble, Vabôk ónlevud, and he brought his own pick. Of course, soon after settling in he scurried away from the hard work, claimed himself a mason's shop, and busied himself building a limestone armor rack. A limestone armor rack. We have not a lick of armor in the entire damn fortress, but no one had the heart to tell him that. I've recently got him back digging with me and Libash as we build a new underground farm plot to feed our hungry mouths. Libash has been a bit full of himself since I named him sheriff to watch over the newbies, but he's been solid enough since we set out for this godforsaken pit. I need to keep a close watch on him, though. Recently he asked for, all but demanded in fact, his own office and dining room. I'm the fucking leader of this comedy of manners and even I don't have an office. Then again, perhaps it's not such a bad idea.
Our mechanic Zefon Allaskol has been abed since autumn following his harrowing encounter with an angry goat. I mean, it's a fucking goat, right? Still, there's no rousing him. If he's still asleep come next autumn I'm going to be forced to deny him water so his bedroom goes to more productive use. I've conscripted the new woodworker as a mechanic for the time being, but at the pace he's going we'll be lucky to have a single stone-fall trap in place this year.
We're running dangerously low on meat, and the alcohol supply isn't looking great either. I'll have to lash the brewer to the still and round up those dogs that've been breeding like rabbits in this place. Give the animal dissector something to do at any rate. Gods help us come winter.
This being the diary of Dodók Kuletber, pickmistress of Ninlòr Sedish, "Toetools of Infamy"
25th Felsite, 202, Late Spring
I suppose I should begin keeping a diary of this place now that it seems we're here to stay for a while. The twenty-four new useless migrants who just moved in during our second spring here at Toetools seem to ensure that much. It's a good thing we seven original prospectors cleared the nearby forest for wood when we moved in, before that damn kobold made off with our only steel axe, else there wouldn't be enough material to create beds for all these louts. Still, I suppose we should keep our just-arrived soap and cheese makers, millers and tanners, rangers and animal vivisectionists happy while we force them to do real work. I mean, we have no milk, so what the fuck do we need with a cheese maker? Stone detail for you, my lass.
At least there was one miner amongst the rabble, Vabôk ónlevud, and he brought his own pick. Of course, soon after settling in he scurried away from the hard work, claimed himself a mason's shop, and busied himself building a limestone armor rack. A limestone armor rack. We have not a lick of armor in the entire damn fortress, but no one had the heart to tell him that. I've recently got him back digging with me and Libash as we build a new underground farm plot to feed our hungry mouths. Libash has been a bit full of himself since I named him sheriff to watch over the newbies, but he's been solid enough since we set out for this godforsaken pit. I need to keep a close watch on him, though. Recently he asked for, all but demanded in fact, his own office and dining room. I'm the fucking leader of this comedy of manners and even I don't have an office. Then again, perhaps it's not such a bad idea.
Our mechanic Zefon Allaskol has been abed since autumn following his harrowing encounter with an angry goat. I mean, it's a fucking goat, right? Still, there's no rousing him. If he's still asleep come next autumn I'm going to be forced to deny him water so his bedroom goes to more productive use. I've conscripted the new woodworker as a mechanic for the time being, but at the pace he's going we'll be lucky to have a single stone-fall trap in place this year.
We're running dangerously low on meat, and the alcohol supply isn't looking great either. I'll have to lash the brewer to the still and round up those dogs that've been breeding like rabbits in this place. Give the animal dissector something to do at any rate. Gods help us come winter.
posted by Sean at 5:56 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home