I continue to reign supreme! All hail the goblin king!
Dragomir is still out of the game. His head injury has him stewing in bed, forcing his wifey to feed him while he snores and farts up a storm. The Dauphine's doctor - who is, in fact, not really a doctor - believes the bump on the noggin led to a concussion, and while Dragomir isn't in life-threatening danger, he does need a proper physician before he'll wake up. Something about a 'status ailment'.
I don't know. I'm not a medical man. I don't fix; I rip apart. I'm good at that.
The gypsies are on a bridge made of sticks and held together by honey. Their happy whittle boy knocked our captain for a loop, and Libby wants them gone. Problem is, the perpetrator of the crime doesn't wanna go. He knows he's responsible, and he nae wishes to leave while Dragomir is ailing. He also doesn't wish to ditch his girlfriend before they've, ah, 'embraced'. The very thought gives me shudders.
So! An impasse. An impasse that I will ne'er be a part of, as I have a different duty. I have to find Dragomir a right proper doctor before his brains leak out of his skull and muck up the carpets. And since the Imperium's fucking guards no longer seem to be on our trail, I'm confident we can approach any old town we like and requst the services of a friendly physician. Our guns will be our passport.
The platypus tells me we'll be reaching a town tomorrow. I canna wait to see if brutal threats work. It's been way too long since I flexed my diplomatic muscles. And speaking of that platypus...
This diary is a fascinating read. Far more than I'd ever suspected.
I've had to smell this grungy thing near every day for far too long. It's a pungent blend of moss, spunk, piss, and grave dirt. Dragomir adores it beyond measure so I've ne'er filched it before, nor put up a contest as to its presence (let's be fair, some of the piss smell is probably my fault), but... hell, I wish I'd stolen it ages ago. Ages. So many things have happened of which I was only partly aware...!
Yep. That's right, Dragomir. I know you dislike me. (Feeling's soooooo mutual.)
I know you killed Edmund. Or you think you did. Don't blame you for it. But I'll remember.
I know the poisonheart was not a proper gift. Your boy stole it from Pagan. I approve all the more, and I'll thank Grayson by using the dagger to dig out his heart.
I know you snogged Bora. Ohhhhhhhh, I wonder just how disgusting it was. How sick are you, man?
And I know about the platypus. I know he is a Non. And I know that fantastically few others are aware, even those who are stupid enough to write in this diary but not read it. Fools, the lot.
Plato comes with me to find a doctor for Dragomir. Hell, if I can swing it, he'll be going eeeeverywhere with me from now on. And if he acts up... well, I assume my poisonheart can locate his kidneys quickly enough. Even Non must have kidneys.
I love life. It's so much more interesting since I met these rancid humans.
Gods bless Goblinoster,
Grylock the Informed