“Crawl!” The crow seemed to cry, but Birchald refused, shaking his head as he passed by a small rabble of green and yellow fields. Paint was easy to get a hold of, but this much... And pink? This called for a man with intellect, and a reputation as someone who could keep his mouth shut.
Birchald hopped to the side as an ignorant rider galloped his horse down the surprisingly well cobbled road... Even though they were a drab grey, he couldn't help but admire those hard working cobblers, or whatever they were called these days, road layers? Cobble stoners? Birchald tilted his hat back with a finger and looked to the sky in thought. He turned from the main road and into what seemed more like an alley, on towards the small gathering of pedlars and stalls. He looked around for someone described to him as, a heavily bearded, and portly fellow. Apparently this man had well earned contacts with the scribes of scholar's stair which meant, men knowledgable in powders, paint and all things wonderful! He looked over the various goods, and recognised the face of an old friend, selling corn husk dollies, beautifully dyed with hues of green and violet. They had travelled together up along the Greenway once, selling their wares and their tales together. Birchald stopped to sample the man's charm.
After a heated introduction, which involved the flight of a pile of sausages, and a mumbled apology, seasoned with compliments and a sprinkling of coin, Birchald was speaking nicely with an ill tempered butcher, who (most likely suffering from a large bout of flatulence, judging by the smell, and was) willing to delve deep into his contacts for what Birchald required... Pink paint... Buckets of it. All he needed was the coin.
Dear Diary,
Pink paint acquired. Flatulence suffered, but not gained. Do not fear, a Pink Dawn will rise anew and all shall learn to respect their neighbour's lawns.
Yours Sincerely, Me
