I am writing this tale on a wooden bench I found just beyond the Umbleheim gate with my ever-pointy and scratchulent hobby knife that I always keep in my hat-sack. I would have used a pen and ink like a civilized baker should, but I want my story to be permanent and wood-carved letters are as permanent as I can do right now.
This town is very much unlike what I expected when I set out for new friends with which to share my crow pie. For one, no one is here. There are no signs of any disasters, natural or artificial, but the absence of all life is vexing. The albino kittens that I encountered on the road are still with me and refuse to go away.
I tried placating them by throwing a piece of of crow pie their way, but it was pie no longer. The metamorphosis I had noticed the beginnings of in the oven had continued in my hat-sack and the two unpie-like forms were now clearly socks.
It is a known law of nature that cats enjoy little more than playing with socks, but given my recent history with the evil foot-garments, I put them back in my sack and went back to writing. The kittens have gotten gradually more aggressive in their attempts to ensock themselves, but I am so far still able ignore their adorable little claws and keep writing. I wonder how much longer I will be able to keep this up because