Thursday, November 8, 2012

Day Three-Twenty-Four: Dragomir loses his shit



I'm sure I've made you aware, diary, that my dad is a jerk. Yesterday's entry on the subject should have generated a position that was ABUNDANTLY clear, and if it did not, every other detail of my relationship with my father must have set the record straight. He's a bastard who treats everyone else like scum.

WELL. Turns out the nobles wanted to PROVE this fact to me, as if I didn't already know, by very vocally bringing EVIDENCE of his painful lessons to my immediate attention. As in, shoving their wounds in my FACE.

I woke up this morning with visiting Morris' little starter ranch on my mind. He's told me that these are dairy cows, and he can't wait to start producing milk. I questioned the way he formed that sentence, but I knew what he meant, and I too was excited. Milk could bring a lot of money to wee Pubton. 

I barely had time to set foot outside the pub, before I was assaulted by ten nobles. All of them had bruises, and cuts, and bandaged wounds, and they showed them to me, and they described how they got their various ills in significant detail, and best of all, they FOLLOWED ME AROUND AND KEPT SHOWING ME THESE THINGS OVER AND OVER AND OVER.




I must admit, it was an effective tactic. Highly effective. I couldn't get much work done with a mob of nobles on my heels throughout the sunlit hours, constantly tossing their wounds in my face. Whenever I asked them to PLEASE go away, they said they wouldn't until I forced my dad to change his ways. Or made him leave. Either method worked for them, and either method, I knew, would prove quite useless. 

They wouldn't even leave me alone when Oswald himself barrelled through the lot of them on his way to the pub's latrine, gaily slapping one of the female nobles on the butt as he passed. For a dude with one arm he has excellent aim.

FINALLY, as the sun was setting and the animals being herded into their respective pens for the day, I agreed. I told the freaking stupid tight-ass needy whiny ANNOYING NOBLES that I would have a talk with my dad. Tomorrow. Because all important things happen on Fridays, and if he's going to suddenly change his tune, it will happen on a Friday. They questioned my logic, but seemed satisfied enough to leave me alone.

All but one.

Throughout their constant harangues I was aware of one slim figure on the perimeter of the complaints. A squirrely man, thin to the point of gauntness, clutching a mud-stained piece of parchment and shivering. I've mentioned him before, but until I was left alone with him I didn't really register the dude as anything more than an annoying insect.

He watched me with hollow, tired eyes, eyelids twitching. "D… D… are… D…"

"D?" I huffed, still fuming in the wake of the nobles. "D? What are D? Spit it out, man."

He wavered. One hand extended slowly, clinging to the parchment as though it were a lifeline that would spell his doom if he let go. "L… Lo… Lord… can… can I have… some… so…"

I wasn't in the mood. I regret it now, but right then, I REALLY wasn't in the mood. I circled the poor man, staring him down, sneering. "What? What what what? What the hell do you want? Who ARE you? You've been bugging me for days, trying to tell me this and that, dogging my footsteps, ANNOYING ME whenever I have some BLOODY TIME OFF! If you have a MESSAGE, you'd DAMN WELL BETTER TELL ME!"

He opened his mouth, uttered one syllable I couldn't connect to a word, and collapsed. Still irritated, I dragged him into the pub, plopped him onto an unused cot, and asked Bora to feed him when he woke up. As far as I know, he hasn't woken up, the parchment still clutched tightly in his fingers.

I dunno what he wants. Maybe he's another labourer. A peasant looking for a job. Maybe he has a message for me, one of the letters from my pen pal. Maybe, just maybe, I should have been nicer to him. But I was way too put out by my douchebag constituents to bother with him today.

Tomorrow. I'll talk to him tomorrow, after I… um… chat with my dad. Whatever the skinny guy's thing is all about, surely it'll be a step up from trying to persuade Oswald the Farmer not to bully people. And if I don't survive that conversation, then, hey. I never have to worry about the skinny guy again.

Tomorrow might well be my last day on this planet. Pray for me, diary.


Dragomir the (re)Dead

No comments:

Post a Comment