A Cart for Sale
I’m selling a cart. Got four wheels, a tongue and a seat. Made of wood. Pull it, it moves. Push it, it moves, too, just worse. It’s a cart. What else am I supposed to write? Price to be agreed on over a touch of spirit and sausage.
– Dommegy
Watch Out for Ergot!
Brethren, yesterday I was walking the fields and noticed sure signs of ergot in my crop. I set it afire at once and made sure it burnt to ash, but take a look at your own grain, and see if the pestilence has taken it, too.
– Trabo
Galfrid’s Vow
To Folk Far and Wide,
I’ve told you all plenty of times but never put it in writing, as I’m doing now, so that none may hide behind a defence of ignorance. My boy Galfrid’s sworn to the Earthmother that he’ll never touch beer nor spirit again for as long as he lives. And it’s a good thing he has, for when he lost our goat, hens, butter churn and the very breeches he was wearing in a game of cards two weeks back, I was mighty tempted to toss him out on his arse, or at least give it a thorough hiding. So if anyone spies Galfrid walking towards a tavern, come see me at once, and you’ll get a silver stag for your trouble. Likewise, if I see any man encouraging him to drink, offering him a pint or a snifter of anything, then that scoundrel will learn that a hoe is fit for more than just ploughing.– Lillimira
Rats!
Avoid the old elven ruins near Allenham! I stepped off the path to take a shit and just when I had found a comfortable spot and had my breeches around my ankles, I saw five strange ratlike men carrying daggers and swords. If it wasn’t for the fact that they seemed not to notice me and I had already assumed the position, I would’ve shit my breeches.
– Prescott
A Daughter’s Been Born to Me!
Fellow Folk! I’m the proud da of a little girl! She’s lovely as a nymph, strong as a fiend and bellows like a furious harpy, except maybe a bit louder. Come to my cottage and drink to her health and the health of her darling mother – and perhaps lend a hand choosing a name, for I’m having a tough time choosing between Nesla, after my brother’s wife, or Lesla, after no one, but whose sound I’m partial to. They’re both pretty and proper, but I cannot give her two names, for we’re just simple peasants, not high and mighty lords who can drape themselves with names so long no man’s capable of remembering.
– Roark
