Hey, I'm selling a cart. Got four wheels, a tongue and a seat. Made of wood. Pull it, it moves. Push it, it moves, too, just worse. It's a cart. What else am I supposed to write? Price to be agreed on over a touch of spirit and liverwurst.
Beloved brethren, Yesterday I was walking the fields and noticed sure signs of ergot in my crop. I set it afire at once and made sure it burnt to ash, but take a look at your own grain, and see if the pestilence has taken it, too.
To Folk Far and Wide, I've told you all plenty of times but never put it in writing, as I'm doing now, so that none may hide behind a defense of ignorance. My boy Pomir's sworn to the great mother Melitele that he'll never touch beer nor spirit again for as long as he lives. And it's a good thing he has, for when he lost our goat, hens, butter churn and the very breeches he was wearing in a game of cards two weeks back, I was mighty tempted to toss him out on his arse, or at least give it a thorough hiding. So if anyone spies Pomir walking towards a tavern, come see me at once, and you'll get a Novigradcrown for your trouble. Likewise, if I see any man encouraging him to drink, offering him a pint or a snifter of anything, then that scoundrel will learn that a hoe fit for more than just ploughing.
Dear Friends! I'm looking for some toothsome lass to wed my son, Metty. He sorely needs a woman's hand to guide him, for otherwise he'll just sit and ponder, his head in the clouds and his arse on the ground, admiring creation and scribbling poetry. Dowry welcome, but not required.
Misfortune has fallen on Honeyfill and the apiary which for five generations has provided a livelihood for the entire Meiersdorf family! The apiarian phantom has descended upon us and has begun to destroy our hives, slay our bees and wreak general havoc all around! I shall be grateful for any help you can provide and guarantee a reward awaits you for work well done.
Attention, good folk! Belleteyn's fast approaching. Unless, gods forbid, the war reaches us before that time, same as every year we'll hold festivities in the commons near the village. There'll be a grand bonfire and dancing till dawn. Yet man don't live on dance and song alone, so we'll have to prepare the following: –Three barrels of apple cider –Two barrels of pure grain spirit –Three lambs fit for roasting and a fattened sow –Sausages, blood pudding and liverwurst, a measure per head –Three bushels of porridge grains, two sacks of potatoes, one of turnips
Round the month's end I'll walk the village and ask who can give what, or if anyone's got a crown or two to throw in.
Fellow Folk! I'm the proud da of a little girl! She's lovely as a nymph, strong as a fiend and bellows like a furious harpy, except maybe a bit louder. Come to my cottage and drink to her health and the health of her darling mother - and perhaps lend a hand choosing a name, for I'm having a tough time choosing between Nesla, after my brother's wife, or Lesla, after no one, but whose sound I'm partial to. They're both pretty and proper, but I cannot give her two names, for we're just simple peasants, not high and mighty lords who can drape themselves with names so long no man's capable of remembering.
Fellow Northerners! The enemy never sleeps! The Black Devils have pitched camp other side of the river. Our lads will defend us to their last bolt and last drop of blood, but you, too, need to be prepared to serve your fatherland. Steel and blood aren't the only things a man can wield in the fight for Redania - a wary eye and a cocked ear do battle just as well. So if you see a stranger hanging about your village, or someone hiding in the bush, or you hear someone talking with a foreign accent, send an envoy to the nearest outpost at once, because you might've just spotted a Nilfgaardian spy. Do this, and you not only serve Redania, but you enrich yourself as well, for we will reward all such help as generously as it deserves.
Together, should to shoulder, onwards, to victory!
Good people, I know the road takes a little meander hereabouts. I know the straightest path's through my fields. But next man I catch trampling my crops, why, with the gods as my witness, I swear I'll bludgeon you so badly not a single bone in your lazy body will be left intact. So consider yourselves warned and stay on the blasted road, you fucking vagrants.
Hey, lads, there any among you can lend me a plough? Thing is, mine smacked up against a stone in my field so hard it bent halfways, and may a fiend take me if I know how to fix it or plough my field without it.