The Bamburg settlers hiked up into the hills, braving the late winter rain, and winding up the valleys of southern Germany. Eventually they would arrive at their new home, a windswept meadow at the base of the narrow canyon. With only the food in their bellies on hand, and what few tools could be generously spared by their previous host, they began work on the new village. Hunger clawed at the camp while they felled their first trees, and dug foundations for their first homes; until at last a nearby stream was found that supported fish, and their need was satiated. To their dismay the soil proved to be infertile; and it was decided that it would not be worth the effort to attempt a planting of spring rye this year. They would have to live off the land, until the land upstream could be surveyed, hopefully being capable of delivering a harvest, capable of supporting the village. They had enough on hand to survive the winter, but if more stragglers from Bamburg, allured by the promise of land, continued to trickled in, the land would not support the increased numbers. Their minds turned to trade, for the village would need animals. Sheep for clothes and meat, Chickens for eggs, and oxen to relieve poor Albrecht, their only bull, of his sole labors. Timber could be harvested into simple woodstuffs, and carted down the valley to Brixen. Eventually, there would be enough money on hand for more livestock, and maybe even a horse to pull the cart to market. Still, anxieties remained for the year. In the early damn hours, foragers would sometimes believe to have witnessed the appearance of armed men, huddled in the distant treelines. The settlers hopes would have to lay in these apparitions being nothing more than the anxious creations of hungry minds...

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Survival Still Not Guarenteed