Good folk! Take no advice from the pellar! When our Rossa fell weak, he said to put her on a pine plank and stick it in a fired bread oven, then count to a dozen three times. When we pulled her out, she had burnt to a crisp and there was nothing left but to bury the charred bits. But the pellar refused to give back the three hard-boiled eggs we'd given him, saying he'd already eaten them.
The Ladies of the Wood are unhappy - so the trees whisper. The offerings we mark are not enough, we pray too seldom, and too often we take their name in vain. Mend your ways, good folk, show contrition and fervor in your faith, for if the Ladies too abandon us, we'll all perish in this forsaken bog.
Dear neighbors, I've had these awful dreams where I open my mouth and all my teeth come tumbling out at once, then turn into vile, squirming little things that burrow into the ground. What could this portend? Misfortune? Illness? A barren womb? If you know, pray tell and I'll feast you to berries and broth.
Some devilry's taken hold of our fields, something neither spirit nor phantom. Old Wil swears on his mother's grave it's like to be Jenny o' the Woods. Whether it is or it ain't, be careful and don't go out in the fields alone, and most certainly not without scythe or rake in hand.
But if you've the courage to drive the foul thing off, you'll receive a handsome reward.
My wife, Hanna, she's missing. A few days ago she went into the woods and hasn't yet returned. I'm near out of my wits with worry and will pay any price to the man who brings her back to me, or at least tells me where to look for her.
Take heed not to wander about after dark nor make any unnecessary racket. Keep your windows covered if you burn a candle and don't throw any damp branches likely to smoke onto the fire. We've enough trouble in the village without attracting more.
Old Milly's lost whatever wits he had left. Running around the yard in nothing but his nighties, yelling horrible lewdities and smearing mudpies on anyone who walks close to the fence. Best avoid his place, especially if you've a freshly laundered dress on.
Kind people, don't eat cats. It brings horribly ill luck. After I brewed a broth from our she-cat, next day I twisted my ankle in the field. I've clear they speak the truth saying cats are creatures soaked in foul magic and copulating with witches and seek revenge from beyond the grave.
I'll shear the hair off any trollop who fraternizes with the Nilfgaardians, so her baldness will proclaim her shame to all. And I'll carve the face of any peddler who deals with the Black Ones or provides them a service
To the thief who's nipping goods outta my pantry soon as I put them there! That sausage you took last week - I prepared it especially for you - from the bloated carcass of a mare I found in the muck, rotten eggs and a handful of larvae. I then spat in it for seasoning and added some other highly personal ingredients. I hope you ate your fill, you scurvy rogue!