Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Day Three-Twenty-Two: Like being a kid again



Some skittery dude I didn't recognize kept trying to bug me today. Dunno what his deal is, but he's annoying. Wouldn't say more than a syllable at a time…

… and, to be fair, I didn't really give him a chance. Or rather, DAD didn't give him a chance, because our ever-loving reeve was on the warpath. I haven't been this tired since that trek to Goblinoster last year, and at least then I didn't have the voice of a booming devil in my ear, shattering my brain with each word. No, back then it was just a hidden rat and a ghost. Ah, good times…

(Speaking of Philip, I've seen him floating around from time to time. He looks really broody, bobbing about in the morning fog. I guess I would be, too, if I was dead. Still, I'm surprised the rats have set him loose - they seemed really possessive of him before.)

My father is a tyrant. He woke us all up like he did yesterday, thundering into the pub and tossing people out of bed as though he were a raging bull with a hot poker up his butt. Once everyone in Pubton was standing in front of him, shivering in the cool morning air and still asleep (I honestly thought I was stuck in a nightmare), he quickly split us up into teams and ordered us to work. Today's project: setting up proper farms.

I tried to argue that I liked to move between projects rather than sitting in one spot all day. Dad glowered in my direction. I shut up and did as I was told. So much for being mayor.

Dad has cause to be concerned, I suppose. Winter's coming, and when it does the cold-weather crops need to be in the ground and ready to sprout. If we're to have a harvest to both eat and sell, we need those crops. I guess if we wait too long we'll be stuck without money (which is running kinda low) for quite some time, and that's a poor prospect when the winter hits.

Also? Animals? Need shelter. The chickens are shivering in their open-air, unfinished coops. Poor little blighters.

I had no concern for chickens today. That was Edmund's job. Almost Grylock's, but I convinced dad of the poor rationale behind that positioning. The goblin's too obsessed with chicken meat for anyone's good. We have a guard set up in the evenings to make sure he doesn't steal any. I suspect he made off with two the other night, what with the meat on his breath the next day and all. Little bugger, doesn't he realize that we

ANYWAY, sorry, going off on a bit of a tangent. I HAD NO INTEREST IN CHICKENS TODAY, because I was appointed to till one of the four fields. Not the field with the horse and plough, of course, but the field with the crappy, old, wooden hoes. Me and four other peasants, as well as poor, weak Harold spent the better part of the morning digging away at the ground with our tools, preparing rows so we could plant seeds in the coming days. 

My arms.

Oh, my arms. How they ache.

And this hoe! This worthless hoe! I would have been better off digging with my HANDS! The head of the hoe came off THREE TIMES, and had to be reapplied by my mother, who's seemingly an expert in farming repair. Hadn't realized that, but there you go. The hoe is so crappy and so blunt that I can't even convince my body to treat it as a weapon. I think if I smacked somebody in the head with it they'd ask me if it was a blustery day. WHY CAN'T MY WEIRD HAND DISABILITY KICK IN WHEN I WANNA DO SOMETHING ELSE?!

Anyway, that was my day. Digging. Hoeing. Tilling. Whatever you wanna call it. By the time I stumbled back into the pub I was too tired to ask for dinner. I had just enough energy to write this entry, and now I will end it by saying goodNIGHT.

Sincerely,

ffrrrrghhghrrbrrgh

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