Journal of Minesly
Finally, having taken over the brewing myself, we have drink! Potato wine, not from a real dwarven underground farm, and brewed in the open and polluted by rainwater, so disgusting bilge at best, but it's a step towards civilisation for this hole in the ground nonetheless! Ah, summer. Wonder if the crew will be able to spend winter indoors... oh right. Just as we're setting up some bedrooms, a pack of hungry migrants arrive. And leading them is a fucking fish dissector. We made the last fish cleaner a herbalist because he wasn't up to the job, obviously, how kind of the capital to send us someone truly skilled in the art of cutting up pond turtles and shellfish. Still, a weaponsmith arrived... not too shabby, either. All is grand, apart from the lack of chairs, cooked food and the horrifying presence of lungfish where you least expect them.
Two of the children migrants are always playing make-believe on the exact spot the wagon dropped them off on, only leaving it to eat and drink. Perhaps they hope someone will take them back to the mountainhome away from this rainy and primitive pit, so they can speak to their fifty close relatives, all of whom they claim to miss dearly. Don't I know the feeling.
~Dobar Cudgelcarry, Expedition Leader