[most entries cannot be deciphered, some pages are smeared with grease and ink blots]
Now that's what they call popularity. They've been coming in droves lately to join our hanse – in fact, I've had to start turning some away! Sadly, most of the newcomers are dung-booted jelly diddlers – send that lot to demand coin from a caravan, and even the horses would soil themselves laughing. That's why I've put Carlo in charge of drilling the new recruits. He's pitched camp to the south of Lynx Crag – that rock where the witch lives. I despise such old wenches like plaguey vapors and would gladly fix up a pyre for her, but after what happened at the Cutterin Estate... Bet my own danglies that was her doing, so we'd best leave her be.
It's decided. Within two sundowns, everyone's going to be talking about my band's ride through Fox Hollow. My lads deserve some fun – and there are plenty of men to gut and wenches to diddle there, so we're in for quite a ball. Rumor going around claims clay pots grow from the ground in those parts. If it's true, perhaps I'll gather up a gaggle of those peasants, put them to work digging up that pottery and we'll open up shop. Every organization's got to stay nimble and agile these days. So we'll pivot, instead of slaughtering merchants and knights – we'll sell teapots!
Felt like my spirit was trying to crawl out my bum, that's how badly our kitchen crew botched our last batch of vittles. When knights errant attacked us after that, not a man among us was strong enough to hold a sword. We've got to get our hands on a real cook – only thing more dangerous than an imbecile with a sword is an imbecile in charge of a cooking pot. Perhaps a quick raid of the Cockatrice? Fishermen's chowder would be a pleasant change after all this stew de dog-doo-doo!