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The Journal of Baron Dirty. 27th of Slate.
My plan to avoid the Elf Diplomat until it either went away, or went and bothered Ironblood has not succeeded.
In graceful failure, I deigned to meet with the heinous thing once again.
And once again it displayed the usual nonsensical madness.
I figured we could agree to not cut down any of our lovely trees.
I think this is one Elf who has been licking a few too many pixies.
The Elf went on to say that they would allow us to 'butcher' up to 34 trees this coming year.
I agreed to this readily. Thirty four trees is thirty four more trees than actually exists around here, but I was clearly dealing with a maniac.
Then he mocked my height and said farewell. My loathing for their kind just went up a notch, but diplomacy always comes first, so I took it with good grace.
I'll have a peasant beaten later to lift my spirits, I think.