[center][b][h1]Bork[/h1][/b][/center]


Bork sat on a bollard and watched the fishermen go out.  Later, when they were done selling their catch and were mending nets, he would talk to them, ask them about what sorts of fish they caught, what other types there were around the island.  Once they were gone, he turned his attention to the bay.  It was his first good look at the seaboard since the abbot had discussed his ideas for building a break-wall and improving the port.  He pursed his lips thoughtfully as his eyes swept the shoreline and nearby waters.  It could be done, he was certain, but it would take manpower and skills Pigeon Spit did not currently have.  The abbot seemed to have, or to believe he had, the ability to tap whatever resources he needed.  It would be up to the dwarf to figure out how much was actually required.

He reached inside the loose sleeve of his cloak to produce what looked like a thick, oblong piece of wood.  Actually, it was two somewhat thinner pieces of wood joined on a hinge, which opened to reveal that they each framed a rectangle of slate.  Writing on these took harder chalk than the walls; the piece he wrote and drew with now did not powder in his hand.  He sketched a diagram of the bay, estimating distances based on angle (measured by scratching marks the chalk itself, which called for his knife) and his memory of the map the harbor master had brought him.  He would check again every couple hours to get a feel for the high and low tide lines.  He outlined how he imagined the wall to go and then put the slate tablet away.  Designing and calculating material for the wall would come later. 

It was after he started to move to other parts of town that he noticed his tail.  That damned Werli kid.  Bork would ignore the oaf for now; he would talk to the Captain about getting a sword to carry.  The dwarf had a knife, and owned a spear as well for more adventurous outings, but a visible and good-sized self-defense weapon to carry around town might be in order.  Well, Werli would be doing a lot of walking today.  See how he liked the exercise.

His impromptu survey of Pigeon Spit brought mixed news, although none was any worse than he had feared and some was better.  The craftsmen had adequate and well-maintained tools, and some even had spares.  Nothing critical on that front.  The farms and gardens had a decent variety of foods growing, and decent livestock.  Grinding grain by hand would not do, however.  Not if they were to grow; Pigeon Spit needed a flour mill.  If he couldn’t site one on the river without conflicting with the sawmill, he would have to design a windmill.  That was a challenge; he had never built a windmill before.  Bork smiled.  He liked those sorts of challenges.

When Bork went to look up Findir, the farrier, he learned that he was at the inn, partaking of the free beer and census.  Bork decided to avoid the crowds and eat his lunch elsewhere.  Then it was off to meet catlady.