Vintage Story Wiki
The Last Words of a Fisherman (BR)
Lore section: lastfisherman
betterruins:lastfisherman
· from betterruins
Notes found in a ruined castle wall segement.
Found in structures (1)
bookshelf: a lore bookshelf for this section; placed: this exact book sits in a container or on the ground; random loot: a loot roll in the structure can produce it. Read from the structure's schematics, so it shows where the game can put it, not a drop chance.
| Structure | Kind | How it is found |
|---|---|---|
| megastructures-wallsegment-niclass | structure | random loot |
Text
If these words are ever found, let them serve as a record of what became of our town. I was a fisherman. I lived by the river, cast my nets at dawn, and fed my family with what the water gave. Ours was a modest life, but a good one, built on hard work and quiet pride.
The wall outside once stood tall, raised in times of trouble when raids were common and protection was scarce. We built it ourselves, stone by stone, because no one else would. For a while, it kept danger out. But walls do not stop hunger, nor cold, nor the slow grinding weight of abandonment.
First came the poor harvests. Then the fish began to vanish, as if the river had grown tired of feeding us. Merchants stopped passing through, and the town’s market fell silent. What little grain we had was taken as tax by men who rode in, gave no names, and left with full carts.
Many left, hoping to find work or shelter elsewhere. The rest of us stayed, bound by habit or hope. I stayed because this was my home. But today, I laid down my nets for the last time. There is no more to catch. My hands shake from hunger, not age.
I write this now with what little strength I have left. The hearth has gone cold. The roof leaks when it rains. Outside, the wall still stands in part, though it leans now, overgrown and cracked. The aged flags on the wall showing our successful past.
When I close this book, I will sleep. And on the next morning I will pass on and look for a new home, leaving this to be reclaimed by nature.
The wall outside once stood tall, raised in times of trouble when raids were common and protection was scarce. We built it ourselves, stone by stone, because no one else would. For a while, it kept danger out. But walls do not stop hunger, nor cold, nor the slow grinding weight of abandonment.
First came the poor harvests. Then the fish began to vanish, as if the river had grown tired of feeding us. Merchants stopped passing through, and the town’s market fell silent. What little grain we had was taken as tax by men who rode in, gave no names, and left with full carts.
Many left, hoping to find work or shelter elsewhere. The rest of us stayed, bound by habit or hope. I stayed because this was my home. But today, I laid down my nets for the last time. There is no more to catch. My hands shake from hunger, not age.
I write this now with what little strength I have left. The hearth has gone cold. The roof leaks when it rains. Outside, the wall still stands in part, though it leans now, overgrown and cracked. The aged flags on the wall showing our successful past.
When I close this book, I will sleep. And on the next morning I will pass on and look for a new home, leaving this to be reclaimed by nature.