Brash Young Fools
The absolute worst has happened. Forced to endure the endless downpour in the uncovered rear of Boris’ cart, I am now beset by a fever of the most virulent nature. Not forgetting the obligations inherent in my station, I have sent my fellows away lest they too fall to this foul disease and, being less able to bear such hardship, meet their final rest.
A fringe benefit of my selfless action is that I need not endure the wretched stench of Boris a moment longer than necessary. Has he even washed since our jaunt in the sewers?
I believe Karl has taken it upon himself to keep a record of their activities while I am indisposed – a sure sign of the keenness with which my absence is felt by all of my companions. Sadly, the fine art of literacy seems to have escaped him. Either that or he writes in some peculiar peasant dialect and I will require an interpreter to make sense of his account.
I understand from Boris that the trio followed the trail of the missing man’s horse to a farm where Victor proceeded to shoot the only lead we had on suspicion that the man was a beastman. Either that or Boris was bragging about his latest conquest – all his talk of chasing down a fine rump and ploughing from behind leaves me baffled in my current state, and the man cannot follow a single thought to its conclusion without a firmer mind holding him to his course.
For all that I have come to value Victor’s skill with a bow, he must learn only to shoot when necessary (i.e. when I instruct him). If he goes around shooting every farmer or farm wife who bears a passing resemblance to their beasts the land will be plunged into famine in short order, and Boris will be insufferable from lack of congress with women to suit his tastes.
In any event, it appears that I must gather myself from my sick bed and once more take the lead as we head of in search of some “lightning Stone”, although I’m am as buggered as Boris’ mare if I can tell you what that might be or where to find it.
Oh, for a coherent account of events!