Forthwith, I give up on time
for it has given up on me.
It was my earnest intent to see to the clearing of the fallen trees yesterday. My plans for reconstructing The Brubu's Servant have been forestalled repeatedly; a fact which has given rise to my ire for my own inability to administrate affairs when the temptations of exploration, study, or intrigue appear. My poor, derelict airship, one day you shall go aloft bearing myself and my "cargo", this I swear.
Self-deprecation aside, this morning's eve was must eventful. Just as I was departing the town square bound for the Elder Willow's woods, I caught a most pleasant aroma wafting on the breeze, and followed it to its source. Little to my surprise, I at once identified the scent after seeing through the open doors of the Bordello a tall pint of ale perched atop the bar, which beckoned me to breach the doors of the maison de tolerance. A young athanasian wench with golden locks stood just past the threshold. The unfortunate woman scarcely had a stitch separating her cock lane and kettle drums from any of the numerous corinthains that frequent this coffee house.
