Ah, welcome to my humble homestead! Mind your feet, now, mind your…oh, dear. Well, don’t worry, it’ll wash off. Wipe off the large bits over there on that rock, do you mind? Thanks. Now please, come in, sit down! Care for a mug of milk? A bowl? A skinful? How about a tub of milk? No? Well, then, don’t mind if I do.

My cows? Oh, yes, quite a lot them, don’t you think? I never lack for milk, believe me, nor for leather nor meat. Speaking of which, how about some smoked meat? No? You just ate? Entirely your loss, believe me.

Speaking of which, could I interest you in one of my fine leather shirts? They’ll keep you safe and warm, my friend, no better balance exists. Come again? You say that you’ve heard that bear fur is superior in that respect? Lies, malicious lies, meant to leave you bleeding and frozen in a ditch. I ask only a shovel for this most excellent shirt! No? Well, it’s your life.

Well, my friend, I’m at a total loss. If you’re not here to partake of my famed meals, or to buy one of my famed leather products, what ARE you here for? Oh? My herds? Ah, I see! You wish to start a herd of your own? Well, you ARE in luck. I’m well-known for my herds, but yet better known for my generosity! Would you like a starter cow and bull set? Fine, virile little buggers, you’ve turn your pasture into desert within a few years, mark my words. No? Ah, so it’s tips you want! Tricks of the trade, eh? Well then, my friend, pull your stool up to the fireplace, and let me tell you about my famous herds.

Now it all begins with my great-grandfather. He used to be a hunter in the old days, quite a good one, but then the years passed by, and he decided to settle down after marrying. Now, his wife, my great-grandmother, spirits rest her soul, was a terrible shrew, and she’d never wanted my great-grandfather out of sight. Now that left him at a loss. He wasn’t used to a life not hunting, and his experiments with fishing left him with a little tiny fish, about the size of your thumb right there, wouldn’t feed a cat for an hour. So he went on trying to build his cottage with his wife standing next to him, nagging after every log.

But one day, he woke up, and lo and behold, a herd of pigs had settled on his land. They weren’t tame by any means, but despite his best efforts to shoot them to extinction they just kept coming, and they went on thriving while he rattled off arrows like rain. As I understand it, he died at the ripe old age of fifty, choked on his own vomit when his wife came out of the kitchen telling him that the bacon was ready…again.

Now my grandfather grew up on pork, and understandably developed what you might call a bit of loathing for it. So he went out and tried his hand at fishing, and got good at it. But the same itch that bit his pappy bit him, and he settled down for to raise a family. But his wife, ah, she had hydrophobia something terrible, couldn’t stand the sight of a river or a lake. Now that had my grandfather scratching his head, so he just went on raising his cottage in the rain, racking his brains while my grandmother huddled under a makeshift shelter.

Now can you guess what happened next? No? Ah, well, what happened was, after a long night of calming his whimpering wife, he emerged from the shelter to see reindeer bounding all over his land. No, sir, I kid you not, you couldn’t throw a rock without braining a reindeer, and that’s just what my grandfather did. Became right famous, he did, for his skills at cooking venison, and many’s the village that watered at the sight of him strolling into the town square with a big old bag of venison on his back, with a big old roll of blubber balancing it out in front. But the poor old fellow went a bit funny in the end. Rolled around in a bag of strawberries before diving into a snowbank. When my grandmother found him, he’d tunneled over to the reindeer pen, hooked them all up to a sleigh, and off he rode over a cliff. Tragic. Funny, though, how we never did find his body. Or the reindeer. Or the sleigh. You’d think something that big would leave a bigger mess.

So now we come to my father. He struck out on his own with nothing but a shovel and a bag of reindeer, er, droppings, and did pretty well for himself. He settled quick, found a nice plot, married a local lass, bless her dear old heart, and dug up the land like he was looking for iron. But a few days before the turnips for ripe, he came out of the cottage and screamed in frustration, for out there, grazing on the turnips, was a herd of sheep. Try as he might, he couldn’t chase them away, so in the end he gave up and became a sheep herder, and he learned to love their wooly little faces. Haven’t spoken with him since dear old mother died, but I hear tell that his sheep have started getting pret-ty sore, if you catch my meaning.

It’s the same with all the rest of my family. My brother, it was beavers for him, but it’ll be up to me to carry on the family legacy, after that terrible day when he tripped over one of the beavers. My uncle, he tried to flee the madness and ran up north. The last letter I got from him mentioned “Seals as far as you could throw a club”, so I assume he’s done well enough for himself. And we never talk about what happened to my cousin, not after they found the remains of a wild dog just outside his house and a trail of blood leading inside.

So that’s my tale. I never even watch the cows until the time comes for my to give them either a quick tug on the udders or a quick axe to the neck. If they die, more come. I’m just swimming in cows. So I’m afraid I can’t really tell you anything, friend. No, really, truly, by the Spirit of the Great Pike I kid you not, our family just has magical blood that attracts herds of animals. Oh, you’re leaving? Well, I’ll not keep you, then, let me just get the door for you, mind the ste-…oh, oh dear. Well, come along, we’d better get that washed off, and be sure to scrape out the bits inside your nose or you’ll be smelling that for months. Good luck with your herds, by the way!

:lol: my dear, that was precious! what a gift. :P

Bwahahahah :lol: :lol: :lol:

Seriously, though, it seems that whenever I settle down anywhere, a herd of some kind of animal invariably settles along with me and never leaves. It's insane.