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Urist's Journal, June 12, 1402

Sybell has died.

While true, I suppose that statement is misleading- she continues to walk, talk, and work for me, but she does not drink or breathe. She seems to enjoy eating meat, but the look in her eyes suggests that she gains more pleasure from it than simple nutrition. I have ceased to take dinner with her, as it has become... disturbing. (I have a theory as to how her metabolism can continue to run as it does, and soon I shall test it in the field to prove it conclusive.)

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The town is just buzzing with news this morning.

It seems the rent is too damn high.


As well, pretty much every newcomer but Urist achieved citizenship.


Urist's Journal, June 15, 1402


The good news: the graveyard has a near-endless supply of bones for Sybell and I to make into rings and ectoplasm for an extra buck. The bad news: with Sybell tied up gathering the damn things and me waist-deep in various administrative tasks, there is no one available to continue production.

Unless that theory I spoke of three days ago is correct.

I chose the grave of a man named Walter Something, Master of Something- the tombstone was too worn away to be read, even though it was only a few years old. Terrible masonry. I prepared the necessary ingredients- I have committed them to memory, so I shall not write them here for fear of having my secret stolen. Because it worked. It worked!

Walter is currently stumbling around the churchyard, gathering bones with Sybell. He doesn't seem nearly as intelligent or agile as she is, but with any luck, he won't fall apart before too long. Perhaps there is hope for the graveyard after all!

It appears that I... er, Urist... made a mistake reading the map and thought he simply couldn't send any bone-loaded carts to the marketplace. Urist was wrong. He's very embarrassed.

Urist decided to accompany his cart driver to the marketplace- after all, someone had to make sure the lout sold for the proper price, and Urist wanted to hear the day's gossip.

To hear Nuremberg's servants tell it, half the town had been appointed to the rank of Patrician by the Emperor. "Are you hearing this?" Urist said to the cart driver. "Everyone has a title now but me. I'm not even a citizen- I can't yet pay the exorbitant fees! How am I going to put up a gentlemanly facade at this rate?"

"You could try selling these bracelets," said the cart driver. "Since we're here and all."

"What a brilliant idea!" said Urist. "I would never have thought of that myself! You're a genius! How would you like to split the profits on this sale?"

The driver jumped at the prospect. "Really?" he said. Urist smacked him across the back of the head.

"No. Now go unload these bracelets so the nice lady can pay me." The driver rubbed his sore spot, glared at Urist, and went about his work. In the end, Urist received five hundred and fifty pound-pennies for three batches of bracelets, bringing his assets up to a total of...

"Balls," muttered Urist.

Urist's Journal, July 21, 1402

The graveyard appears to be off to a good start, albeit a slow one. Walter has not yet collapsed into a pile of decomposing flesh, and I raised another helper this morning from the corpse of a fencing master. Florence something. She's faster than Walter, but even dumber. I had to teach her how to find bones in a graveyard. I am sincerely doubting my level of accomplishment.

I checked the law books today while I was by the town hall- it appears that my employees fit through a loophole. It seems that once someone turns over a body to me for burial, that body becomes my property; probably to avoid people getting angry about the embalming methods used on their loved ones. The body remains mine "excepting when the Grave Keeper shall commit inappropriate or irresponsible acts with or upon any dead persons," but I found no precedent of inappropriate or irresponsible acts. The legality of it could take months to sort out if it ever becomes an issue.



I also bought a burglary deterrent in the form of stingy plants. That excursion was less cerebral.


As well, one Sybill Wrinkleman sent me some threatening notes. I don't think she means anything serious by it- the girl is a criminal, after all. That's what criminals do. I will remember that name, but take no further action at this time.


All in all, it seems that I and the churchyard are doing well. I stumbled onto a scientific secret of unknowable magnitude, and the churchyard made a few penny-pounds. Perhaps I will be able to put my plans in motion before too long.