The Census of Mare

>  The Census of Mare
> Written By Jean-Luc Duquenoy
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>  was in charge of the southern-block census, in the colder regions of our beloved county, Halilburg. Unlike the attempted Domesday Book of The Duke and his administration, our census recorded not only population numbers, births, and criminal proceedings, but also tobacco sales and prevalence of drug absorption in household families. The local Helvetian church had completely submitted to our cause, but not without adding our miscreant presence to their pathetic bible. Faustian demons, devils, and low-class imps who extorted money from holy places of worship, the likes of which are straight from Sabellicus. Due for hell, they said. The amber hue in his sclera and the vaguely intoxicating stench of joyplant suggested that his teachings came from personal experience. We may be demons, but we abstain from using church alms to fuel an addiction. Hopefully, like Sabellicus, his story ends with forgiveness and salvation at the hands of Archangel Michael, and not the end of a mace for missing his 4th payment in a row. For what does a priest in the middle of nowhere need hordes of livestock, money, and loans? He already lives in a sort-of palace and keeps Cagot girls like housemaids. I'm not supposed to add them to the census, so I don't. It seems the local population is keenly aware of the exact number of them in the area, and go frantically witch-hunting the moment a new one is born. From what I've seen, they do not resemble the leper hellspawn everyone makes them out to be. For the sake of avoiding transgression and disdain from my more left-leaning peers, I will include the more controversial statistics in this journal. From what I saw, the lepers counted at around 84, with 1 woman named Lufia Ducourt being a "half-breed." In a population of 1038, that puts roughly 8.1% inhabitants in the marginalized section of fashion, culture, and agricultural stock.
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> There was a statue that looks like me. How weird is that? It had my hair, my earring (an accessory I've since stopped wearing) and the blinders. On closer inspection, the plaque read: " *Kpt. Louise du Mare, 1434-1501* ", insinuating that this captain was possibly a war hero or founder of sorts. He seemed to be wearing rather eccentric attire, with incredibly layered clothes and plumes sticking out of every accessory. Typical of that time period, I suppose. Some places still dress like that. Louise seemed to have been accompanied by a equally dressed dog, armed to the teeth with swords, daggers, and primer. The entire statue was damp, and iced with honorable bird residue. I stared at the statue for who knows how long, eventually figuring that Louise was actually a woman. It has always been a mystery to me how people can determine someone's gender from simply a glance at their facial features. Frau Louise reminded me of my own captain, Herr Johannes. They both have embedded ink in their forearms. Perhaps they're related? Or its yet another artistic quirk inherited from the savages of Upper Barisia. I keep a list of the census results (and loan sharking) in a yellow book with a smiley face on the front which I received from Kolli on my saint day, and I mark a little x next to every name. My spelling of proper nouns and handwriting varies, but that is of no concern to bookies at the the Bokke.
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> Drugs also receive an extra tax that is charged every month that drugs are bought (according to the Erician Calender), and is tacked (by 20%) on the more drugs are bought in total. They can pay in guilders, cad, marks, or possessions/livestock. From what I've seen, my colleagues start with the sadistic beatings and shakedowns over 1 or 2 missed payments. I personally give people 6 crosses (in my journal), I hurt at 4, take limbs after 5, and kill at 6. I typically sell their bones and organs to Himmel at around 4 months worth of payments. The principal is that while the product (every month) is originally cheap, subsequent product bought within that same month get progressively more expensive. I have tried to match my prices with the lengths an addict would be willing to go, but the last few are so expensive they're practically a demonstration of sunk cost. Some of these religious types have tried to play dead before to avoid payment, without realizing how easy that makes things. I loaded my gun, though I do not expect to have to use it myself. I dislike the sound it makes. If I really have to, I have a small parrying dagger from my fencing jousts with Neds.
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> One day, I walked into a young merchant's home on Abbie Street only to find his unmoving body with 2 gold coins placed on his eyes. A clergyman named Schott stood at the door, and welcomed me in. It seemed I had interrupted his ceremony, so I told him to continue. He peformed some kind of pagan rite, kissing the merchant on the forehead. I saw a hook in their lips, suggesting they were trying to hold in a smile or laugh. This had been the 2nd time the merchant had missed payment, but I know the whole town was acquainted with the system. I know the coin trick myself, personally, as I wear them every time im not using the blinders (typically when they need washing). I took a goat named Livia as payment, and took both coins. I thought it was funny, but expressing it is difficult. When I entered the clergyman's house the following day, I saw that he was trying to play the same trick on me, but unlike his friend, he had used silver coins. Also unlike his friend, this was his 4th missed payment. I took the opportunity to ransack his house and insult him. In my stealing, I discovered a work-desk with a number of minerals and toxic fumes about. I figured he had been forging his counterfeit coins for payments, illegitimate or otherwise. This put his debt at 41 missed payments total, due to his coins being fake.
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> On closer inspection, his deeds and land claims were forged too. The options that remained were as follows: Sell his wife, sell his organs, and run his scam. I knew this would be a good time to make an example, though. It seemed as though Herr Schott was somewhat of a local celebrity among both the clergy and various local nobility. I decided not to add his name to this month's census. I knew I would have to execute him and leave his corpse in the public eye for the sake of sending a message. I had dinner with the man's family, and had a polite conversation with everyone there. His daughter was very intelligent, and had an infatuation with insects. A future entomologist. Their house was tall enough to have its own balcony, and the curtains and carpet seemed rather expensive for a fraudulent priest. I investigated the house under the pretense of using the restroom. There were alchemical scripts all over the Bertha's (his wife) room. Her bedsheet was a paradigm from Eaxaria, which I believe originated from Honn Dural. The priest's room was full of valuables, though their authenticity is debatable. They certainly didn't smell real. I could see the beautiful farmlands out the window, stretching into the distance. The long-necked birds could be seen fleeing as though something was coming. I knew it was going to be a difficult winter. When I returned, I finished my Barley soup and asked what the statue in the town was about. Apparently, it was a witch-hunter who rid the town of both enemy soldiers (as the Great Gar War had erupted at the same time) and supposed demons. They joked about my resemblance to the man and how the roles had reversed. Their cat, Gustaf, knocked over a small vase containing some Common Gentians.
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> Once I bid his family goodbye in the middle of the night (much to their protest), I sought my next house for the census. I had added all their names, as his wife and daughter were clean of opioids. Their cat might be on something, but that's of no concern to me. I added him to the census anyways. I stalked a man who left the local bar down to his home, which was extremely small but had loads of rabbits, most of them the common regional dwarf rabbits. He had loaned some money for alcohol, but had not begun an addiction on tobacco yet. I joined him for the evening, but after introducing himself as Count Johen, subsequently passed out. I put him to bed, lit a tobacco clay pipe, and left it in his mouth while he snored. I held his nose closed, which was disgusting, so I wore gloves, and caused him to inhale deeply and exhale. I left it in his mouth, left a note containing the money he owed, and made sure to not slam the door too hard behind me. As funny as this method is, these pipes aren't cheap and Im not willing to stalk every slobbering *trunkenbold and säufer* in Mare. I went through a dozen more houses, and fortunately the commercial area of the town didn't have any debt issues or even addictions. There were a few new marriages, either that or the last census taker (I believe it was Alois) forgot to write it down. I have gone through roughly 1/5th of the town's middle class houses. I know the real problem will be in the lower-class areas. So far, everyone had been pretty cooperative, save that clergyman. This streak was broken by some loony clockmaker named Christian, who had missed his 4th payment and was addicted to practically everything under the sun.
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> The man was intelligent and well-spoken, but you could just see in his hair and eyes that something was very much unstable. He made multiple double-meaning jokes that implied my demise at the end of one of his inventions. Clearly the man had divorced, as his census-recorded wife Yssis was nowhere to be seen, and he was accompanied by a number of Mawnish prostitutes. I was mesmerized by the syncing of clocks on the wall and the smell of high-alchemy chemicals, but I was only there for payment. The man was tall, around 196cm, and much stronger than I was. Forsaken was I for admitting it, but I was almost willing to leave the poor man alone, out of nothing but paranoid fear. He was clearly an intellectual with a lot of money, but he was dawdling much more than one would expect. He told me he attended Gritzplatte University, which I recognized as an academy almost entirely run by cannibals of ill-repute from the East Cadmus Collective. Something inside me knew that the man was of noble lineage, perhaps an Arear or Haliburg. His strange accent and pitch-black hair definitely resembled a Siglerian more than anything. I did not recognize the banners all over the walls, but they seemed similar to the Gregorian national flag, which would certainly explain his stature. I told the man I would return another day, and he offered me reading materials and a mistress to stay. I'm confident in retrospect that everything there was poisoned, so thankfully I declined.
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> The following day, I met with the clergyman Schott's family and brought his supposed corpse (it had changed clothes, though I was assured it was part of some ritual), and brought him with me to the clockmaker's house. Despite the tall man's confusion, he allowed me to enter his living quarters and place the pretender down on the hard-planked floor, next to a large keyboard instrument. I asked the man if he was a necromancer, to which he replied (while laughing) that unless I actually was a reincarnation of Kpt Louise, he had not managed to break into that in his research. His philosophy on the human body didn't seem compatible with reality, anyways. The noble scientist made me feel welcome in his home once again, but constantly peppered me with trivial questions and distracted me with meager toys and women. One of his women, an East-Mawnish (based on her accent) consort provided context for some of the inner workings of the clocks which simulated a Sundial. I was more concerned with the model galleon inside a small bottle, which I became infatuated by for reasons beyond me. There's just something about a beautiful hull. I accosted the man and reminded him of my laconic disposition toward human contact. This was made further apparent by the sudden expulsion of blood from a hurling prostitute in an adjacent bucket, a sign of consumption. One cannot describe the feeling of wanting to wear hundreds of gloves to escape the presence of the dull miasma in the air around me. Disgusting. I had grown weary of the ungodly opium den theatrics, and I believe the man had picked up on that fact.
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> First of all, I believe in retrospect that the man was not an academic, but rather a con-artist and bawd, intent on swindling me of money. The guy was a literal horologist in both senses of the word. I know for a fact the man had stolen the name and identity from a scientist from Reirenmark. I knew the it sounded familiar. Second of all, I have always been gullible. The (most likely Gregorian) man, who was incredibly imposing and somewhat playful, led me to a windowless room of what seemed to be cooking utensils with cobblestone walls and floor. I felt the nails of an incredibly pale prostitute touch my hair, before the door closed behind me and I heard a variety of locks and barricades be placed. This was not my first time in a dungeon, at least not since Kendaal. I heard what sounded like gossip on the other side of the door, which was too heavy to budge and was already not an option. I felt hurt that so many people could conspire to hurt me, but from what I could tell, they were justifying it as simply being a game or a test. I know the truth, that being either my starvation or a ransom to the Bokke at large, as if the would ever care. On the wall adjacent the door stood a large, looming painting of 7th Duke, Leighton Arear. So not only is this punk a charlatan *hoerenloper*, he's also some kind of fanatic Leightonian royalist from the War. Its interesting, I always thought Leighton promoted the sanctity of romance, marriage, and moral relationships. I could've sworn he outright banned courting with the slaves.
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> I was vehemently thinking, chasing every individual trail. I thought quite a lot, and I'll pen it in the journal since I don't have anything better to do. They really trapped me in a dungeon. What year is this? They guy looked like he could snap me in half, but instead he conceded to confinement. Inside the room was a candle-lantern from the previous century atop a cabinet, a number of cast-iron cauldrons, and a small clearly-defunct alchemy kit. This floor was entirely wet with either mud or viscera. There were some chains and belts on the floor, and a lot of rotting animal corpses. The stench was unbearable, and it made it difficult to function properly. I generally avoided that corner of the room. To make my great escape, I would need to be resourceful with ingenuity the likes of which my confiners have never seen.
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> My first course of action was to unhinge the Duke's painting from the wall, and turn it around for use as a blank slate. I would have to use any further writing material directly ripped from my journals, which would be an affront to the census. On my person I still had a matchlock pistol, a satchel carrying a war's worth of primer and gunpowder. I began sketching a design for a gun, a piece with enough firepower to knock down the door and anyone behind it. The door seemed pretty thin, wooden, and around 5.1cm, but something large and heavy stood behind it. My best guess was that harpsichord from the main room. I have around ~2000 grains of blackpowder, assuming none if it has been spoiled by inclement weather, 2000/75 is around 27 powerful shots. My musket was still in the wagon that brought me here, so this is relatively small calibre gun. Would it be more efficient to invent a new gun, or would it make more sense to just dump my blackpowder on the door and hope for the best? In all likelihood, I could cause a distraction and possibly injure my assailants instead of just making a noise. The damp nature of the floor and dripping ceiling was not conducive to creating a siege petard. The most difficult part, as far as I could tell, was how I was going to create an auger to apply a vent to the gun. I suppose it would be possible to create a makeshift one using my fencing piece with enough reinforcement. It would first need to be theoretically sound.
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> While searching for material and furniture around the corpses, I made the discovery that the pig corpses were strewn helically surrounding the corpse of a Lusitannian, possibility a Forther. The man had been reduced to a blotched skeleton, but he still seemed relatively new, as the pig corpses still had flesh on them. It seems some sick cannibalistic body disposal process had occurred in this dungeon. This was not the man's first time, I suppose. I wonder if this (for lack of a better term, sorry twitter) dago fell for the same scam I did, or if this house used to be some kind of fortress. He had one of those outdated Ipalinian models with a plug bayonet. I have to hand it to the swine, they really cleaned this guy out. No organs or flesh left, just some fabric and a skeleton. Using the weight and sturdiness of the man's skull, I surmised that, with some chiselling, it would be the perfect roundshot. The skull, which I held with gloves for obvious reasons, weighed approx. *1000g* including the jaw. without it, it felt around *750g* or more*.* From my brother's time in Coromandel, I recall his advice on the amount of powder proportional to the weight of the shot being roughly 1:7, meaning I'd need at least 107g (107 x 15.4, the Grain Constant) or 1,648 grains of powder. That means I have more than enough, and I might even need to withhold some if this skull has any chance of staying solid. I also realized that the 2 pots I would have to welded together, most likely using a cauterizing-like controlled explosion, warping the iron enough to keep the shape in place, at least enough for 1 or 2 shots.
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> I got to work with one of the more important aspects of the project, that being the removal of the circular bottom plate of the wrought iron pot (labelled Delft Company) that would go in front, in order to create a seamless tube-like system. I used the flame from the lantern (around 1000°C) to gently burn a light circular ring, and then I proceeded to chip at that ring with my fencing dagger for hours, before bringing the lantern back again, and so on. I hammered the back of the dagger occasionally, using the femur and then jaw of the deadman, God rest his soul. I made a deep (~2.3cm) circular ridge akin to a trench in the pot, but not deep enough to break in. I poured a small amount of gunpowder, around 100g, around the ridge and used some of the candle's paraffin wax to stick the grains in. I tore out the serpentine fuse of the outdated musket, dropped it in the grains, lit it, and detonated a small controlled explosive (the sound was really loud) which partially warped the metal but damaged enough of the ridge that it had gone through. I chiselled the inside of the now-existent barrel until it was almost perfectly cylindrical. My next step was to use another controlled explosive to weld the pots together, as I had no forge nor adhesive. I used the same wax-gunpowder trick, and used a small sample of gunpowder to test a small portion, which succeeded in reaching the metal's melting point of both pots if only for a moment. This meant if I forced enough pressure on the point of explosion, the pots would be forced to embrace one another in that moment of "vulnerability".
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> With this in mind, I would have to do one side at a time, applying a pressure implement to each angle. I would have around 400-500g of gunpowder to spare for the sake of this project, meaning this would not work out well. With the ever so slightly damp gunpowder of the Spaniard combined, I had around 700g (excluding what has been set aside for cannon charges). I went with 250g. I hauled the incredibly heavy corpse of 2 rotting pigs (whom I named Ham, and Her), both of whom had not yet undergone too much necrosis, and stacked them atop the first side. Before I could commence with the explosion, I heard voices from the other side of the door, but they spoke a very different language that sounded almost like Digslerman but with a lot less rasp and more fluctuating tones, like Mawnish. From what I could discern, the clergyman had woken up, and this plot was partially a cooperative effort on behalf of the town trying to be rid the bokkenrijder influence forever through some kind of ransom agreement. I recognized the reluctant, nervous voice of the clergyman's family. Their cat, Gustaf, had returned and I could see him through the door's bars. That idiot. He's nothing compared to Otto, the greatest cat who ever flew. I waited for their conversation to end. I heard many familiar voices. Something told me the Gregorian had been distributing my Opium to the townsfolk, acting as an intermediary. I also heard what sounded like music. I recalled that today, 10 November, was the day before St Martin's day (Martinstag), so they were getting the festivities ready. I would need to use that as a cover for the cannon's eventual firing. In the meantime, I'll use the pre-celebratory music to mask the smaller explosions.
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> The house sounded empty, and I heard the distant sounds of a church organ. I recognized the song as something the Orphanage once heard from a travelling band, "Bransle de la Torche", and I welded each angle at the crescendo of the song. With every explosion, swine guts and blood would be lightly sprayed across the room, to the point that with the last angle I needed 3 pig corpses. It was disgusting, I'm certain some of it got in my mouth. The pots were terribly warped around the connecting point, it looked like twisted baroque tentacles wrapping around one another. There was something artistic about it, seldom the fact I'm certain it wont survive more than a single volley. It complimented the table I had forced on it like a neck brace for reinforcement. I had not slept in roughly 20 hours, as part of me was afraid that perhaps either the undead pigs or the Gregorian would get impatient and advance my execution several days. So, as I sat there, chiseling a bloody human skull into the most spherical shape I could, I must've dozed off several times. At one point, I had woken up to the sound of distant chatter, and an enormous Ruthian rat chewing at my shoe. At a certain point, I was practically possessed by the spirit of habit, barely conscious, filling the skull piece with hardened mud and wrapping it in cloth as tightly as possible. It was about as insulated as it could possibly be. I poured some hardened bones and clay into the cannon's inner framework in order to have a more streamlined barrel. It was also about as perfectly circular as it was going to get. Using a small controlled fire, I cooked the rat and ate it.
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> My unrelenting efforts in drilling through the back of the barrel with a handmade auger (my reinforced parrying dagger with the remnants of bayonet) had finally succeeded, and I had a small uneven hole in the back of my new gun. I called it the Köning, and I was quite proud of my creation. I had already heard the sound of powder-based festivities and chatter outside my door, and some god-awful music emanating from what I believe to be the town's church. As it got louder, I got ready to fire my gun for the first time. I poured the powder down the barrel, stuffing it in with the Lusitanian's weapon, and placing some hay as an intermediary, before stuffing it in as well. I haphazardly balanced the cannon on some furniture and pig bodies, and waited for the perfect moment. The Martinstag celebration waned high and low, but I waited for the Gregorian to join in. My moment had come, my sleepless nights had all been worth it. I tore out the slow-burning fuse of my pistol to its full length, then lowered my pistol gently into position where the fuse would fall in and ignite the small primer and subsequently the load of gunpowder within. The device was plugged nearly directly against the door. I waited, waited, and waited. At some point, I briefly lost consciousness and caused the primer to be lit.
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> There was an incredibly loud bang, directly resulting in a rippling pain in my head combined with a fluctuating singing of eerie origin in my eardrums. The door practically exploded from the force, causing shrapnel and bits of a prior entryway to fling violently in every direction. The gun itself had launched itself greatly from the recoil, and had obviously broken somewhat in its seaming and due-process welding. What remained of the door stood tendrils of wood which subserviently bent away like a sunflower glancing its namesake. The instrument had been crushed into little more than a pathetic serving of wooden pasta with a wrapped-up human head buried within. What a miracle, I thought. It had stayed in one piece. Sizzling gunpowder popped and spat white smoke in the behind me. Perhaps a petard would've made more sense. I stumbled out of my oppression into the streets of Mare, where the festivities had already broken out. My largely drowsy and lethargic presence was unnoticed by the populace, and the Gregorian was nowhere to be seen, save the recently deceased man of the cloth we all know and love whom I spotted wandering with his wife.
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> In an instant, almost as if this had always been the case, I had begun sawing the man in front of the town again. I was always here, and in retrospect, this is not the time or place to be hallucinating. The blinder was still on, winter had not come, and the man was strewn up on the statue begging for mercy. I took a minute to regain my bearings, but I was tackled by a moorishman named Johan Grief before I could finish the execution. I had been sobbing, apparently, as my eyes were incredibly wet and my sinuses were stuffed. I turned to realize that no crowd had formed, and the court was empty, seldom Johan. I was disgusted with myself in letting my visions interfere with my work. The clergyman was dead, and had been sawed down to his shoulder. Before I could realize what was happening, I was stabbed in the hand by the cagot and physically assaulted. For whatever reason, he was covered in blood. I violently struggled against his grip, but my arms were exhausted from all the apparent sawing. I kicked the man in the groin as hard as I could, and immediately ripped the knife from my hand. While he was reeling, another assailant appeared from behind me and bludgeoned my back with a wooden chair, breaking it on impact. He shouted in an Ipalinian language, and I heard somebody feminine throwing up, causing me to throw up as well. I could not understand what the men were saying to me, but it sounded incredibly urgent. The last thing I saw was the statue's dog, staring at me like its owner had done moments before in my dream. How did it get to this? I was miserable.
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> I lay on the ground, beset with myself. My hand was bleeding, I had a searing headache, and the air smelled like dense iron. I could barely stand, and my clothes had been half-stripped from my body. It seems, from what I could discern, my assailants had attempted to tear my valuables from my outfit, and had seen my embarrassingly egotistical collection of Syphil brand bounty posters. Based on my location, I was dragged a few feet from my original lynching spot. There was a tavern or bar of sorts nearby which emanated music, which must've been the source of my vision.
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