From the desk of “Veer” Mörullogem, Scribe of Criedquake

This is my final journal. After this, I am relinquishing my control over domestic affairs to whichever poor sap wants them. I hate this place, and I plan to hide in my wonderful office until it all goes away.

Winter began on a sour note.

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Yes, the Hunter injured himself. This has happened before. But, he’s a manly man, right? He doesn’t have to go whining to a bed, does h

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Well, christ, he’s a goner. My first impulse upon hearing the news?

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In addition to coffins, cabinets have been created for every dwarf. I’ve stated this earlier, but I’ve submitted a blueprint of the area for further proof. Hopefully next year they’ll be drawn to the promise of Free Bed, Free Door, Free Cabinet.

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As for the orders, the 30 cabinets are reaching completion. Oddly enough, the tables and chairs are still underway. Damn the Freemason.

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Suddenly, Kobolds.

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They made off with two articles of clothing left in the Trade Depot outside. Not very picky idiots, I suppose.

And it begins.

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I’ve set up traps along the entry way. This should discourage most attackers, at least for a while.

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Expanded the furniture area yet again. It seems the Freemason’s Guild is far too productive. It’s pretty damned annoying.

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In lieu of the records being pristine, I’ve decided to take up Stonecrafting to pbum the time. The outpost liason wanted toys, and I’ll sure as hell deliver ‘em to all the little dwarf children.

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The Freemasons have done it again. I’ve found out why the Furniture Stockpile is so full.

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They created 30 statues. 30! From rock! God damn, this is so ****ing useless that I

Oh god, they’ve put them in my office.

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I’ve tried to get them out, but there’s no room anywhere.

Damn you to hell, Freemason.

Late Winter’s struck, and we’re unable to continue growing Plump Helmets. This is troubling, but I doubt we’ll die from a month of no Plump Helmets.

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It won’t be long for the Hunter.

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... and unexpectedly, he dies. His body is tossed into a coffin.

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Touchingly enough, his dog remains loyal to him, even in death.

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Waste of an animal. I’ve condemned it.

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Good to see that my Butcher doesn’t ask questions. Good man.

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