29 Slate, Year of the Rains
Those lazy workers finally finished the corn farm. Armok help me but if we don't get some decent corn whiskey going from the still soon I will send this fortress crashing down around all our beards. The local eggheads claim to have discovered how to work bronze but when I ask them if that means we can identify copper deposits those beardless ninnies just stare blankly and shrug. No significant copper deposits in the entire known world, they claim. Things like this make me want to enslave everyone.
The fort is growing and I am sure some noble somewhere is going to whine about a royal guard, but the next draft of militia is going to go poke around that nearby native village, I suspect they're plotting something. What little bronze can be made is getting sent out to the workers; elf-breeding trees cover every blighted acre out there, they need to take care of that. We'll have them make a proper mine in the nearby hills and make some settler wagons with the lumber they acquire; I sent the eggheads off to try and figure out animal husbandry to make good use of those sheep out east. By Armok's surly beard if they make one more joke about nervous sheep, zippers, and kilts I will pack off the lot of them into the sea. It feels wrong but we'll be relying on boats of all damned things to trade back and forth with the new fort when it gets settled.
The eggheads also better find us some horses post-freaking-haste. If our militia can't make bronze axes or even train some war mules to pull chariots then we are screwed, blued, and tattooed, just like that poor experimental sheep.
Those lazy workers finally finished the corn farm. Armok help me but if we don't get some decent corn whiskey going from the still soon I will send this fortress crashing down around all our beards. The local eggheads claim to have discovered how to work bronze but when I ask them if that means we can identify copper deposits those beardless ninnies just stare blankly and shrug. No significant copper deposits in the entire known world, they claim. Things like this make me want to enslave everyone.
The fort is growing and I am sure some noble somewhere is going to whine about a royal guard, but the next draft of militia is going to go poke around that nearby native village, I suspect they're plotting something. What little bronze can be made is getting sent out to the workers; elf-breeding trees cover every blighted acre out there, they need to take care of that. We'll have them make a proper mine in the nearby hills and make some settler wagons with the lumber they acquire; I sent the eggheads off to try and figure out animal husbandry to make good use of those sheep out east. By Armok's surly beard if they make one more joke about nervous sheep, zippers, and kilts I will pack off the lot of them into the sea. It feels wrong but we'll be relying on boats of all damned things to trade back and forth with the new fort when it gets settled.
The eggheads also better find us some horses post-freaking-haste. If our militia can't make bronze axes or even train some war mules to pull chariots then we are screwed, blued, and tattooed, just like that poor experimental sheep.
If only you and me and dead people know hex, then only deaf people know hex.
I write RPG adventures, and blog about it, check it out.
I write RPG adventures, and blog about it, check it out.
