Journal Entry

Outpost Asttitthal
10th Malachite, 1060
Dear Damn Diary
They voted me Mayor again. Idiot bloody dwarves. Can't they see I hate this damned job? I've got a bunch of humans dogging me about something I can't really understand. They want to buy something off us for some reason. I don't know. They seem to interchange between sign language and speaking really slowly. I need a drink.
Which is one thing: the bloody drink has run out. How the hell can that happen? We've got enough mushrooms to flood the entire kingdom with booze yet someone let the woodcutters sleep in and now we don't have barrels to put it in. No barrels means thirty damned dwarves standing in a stream up to their knees while sucking water. That's just asking for something to eat you. I don't bloody trust water.
Meanwhile through an accident of chaos someone built a mess of workshops under the housing. Or someone built housing over the workshops, depending on which idiot you listen to. Personally I don't listen to either of them, but damned if anyone can get any sleep with all that racket beneath them.
And I ask for one damned thing, one goddamn thing, just a few helms made because I'm partial to them. And do I get my wish? We've got so much iron ore you can't walk without tripping over it, yet no one's thought to have a forge built. That's dwarves for you. Bloody idiots.
I need a goddamn drink.
Yours Sincerely
Ilral Kubukdesis