Chapter 71: We need wooden frames. Logs, tied together with vines or animal hide
Isabella stood before the pathetically unfinished well, arms crossed, smile dangerously sweet. The ten massive beastmen in front of her shuffled uncomfortably, their muscles useless against the force of her disappointment.
"So," she began, her voice honeyed but menacing, "why did you not finish the well?"
Silence.
The men exchanged looks. One brave soul cleared his throat.
"We... uh, we thought you left the village."
Isabella’s head snapped to him so fast, the poor man flinched.
"Oh? You thought I left?" she repeated, voice dripping with mock surprise. "So what you’re saying is—you thought I was dead?"
The beastman paled. "W-what? No, we didn’t—"
"Ahh, so you were hoping I perished in the wilds?" Isabella gasped, pressing a dramatic hand to her very much alive chest. "You all gathered here and celebrated my tragic demise?"
The men looked horrified. "NO! WE DIDN’T MEAN—"
"Oh, I see now," she nodded solemnly. "You were already splitting my things, fighting over my hut, picking out who’d take my spot—"