Like that busy little cricket, or dung beetle, or inch worm, or whatever he was, I must prepare for the upcoming winter, for it shall be cold and dark, and I wish to not be caught unaware.


Let us take stock of what we have.

One for me, one for Blake. Check
Two for me, one for Blake. Check


Three for me… Oh dear, this will never do! The inconceivable horror of it all! Famine will be upon us! Our meager supplies will not last the winter! We’ll never survive! We’ll be shriveled up, dead husks before the end of the first week!


Even if we use the snow to chill our drinks, we’ll be praying for death. Where did I go wrong? What did I do to deserve such a fate? Sobriety is a harsh mistress and I will not face her!

But wait, all is not lost. To the crafting pavilion with all haste before it’s too late!”

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

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