10 Lyfehacks Thou Needest Immediately In This Yeare Of Our Lorde, Thirteen Hundred And Forty Seven

With the Black Death sent from the Heavens to punish thine for thy wicked ways, lyfe cometh at thou harde and fast. Herein lie ways numbered one and zero to hack thine lyfe and save thyself from imminent death in the yeare of our Lorde, Thirteen Hundred and Forty Seven.

1. Cover Thine Feet
Betwixt thine hovel and the King’s fields where we tend and produce the food for his feasts, cover thine feet with sacks of burlap. This makes the trek more pleasant and protects thine feet from the human waste that runneth through thy village.

2. Steal A Cat
Our Heavenly Lorde hath sent the Black Death as punishment for thine sins. And The Rat hath helped carry it with its demonic smell. Stealing your Queen’s pet cat, Bethenny, will assist in clearing your home of the infernal creature. Beware being caught by the Sheriff!

3. Keepeth A Garden
Roses, carnations and mint will keep away the infernal smell that bringeth the Death from Rat to Man. Hold their petals in a mask around thine face to hold off the Death from claiming your sinful flesh!

4. Lie To The Sheriff
God shall forgive thou for protecting thyself by lying to the Sheriff’s watch about the thievery of Bethenny. Cover the cat in soot to hide it’s nature and show the Sheriff thine sacks covered in waste that carried you to the field on the daye in question.

5. Bathe
Bathe thy skin, heathens!

6. Burn Thine Mother
She once saide thine love of mead was shameful, so clearly she be a witch whomst shall curse thou with the Black Death! Rid this worlde of her!

7. Dye Thine Tunic With Soot
T’would seem thine can no longer holde off the Sheriff, who hath grown more suspicious. Use the soot of thine own chimney to disguise thy simple tunic and blend into the oily night. It shall help thou to vanish to the Wood so thou can live another blessed day in the Lorde’s light. Also, a pleasurable way to change thine’s look for everydaye use!

8. Revolt!
Thy King and his crony, the Sheriff, hath stolen from the mouthes of babes, done nothing to halt the Death from claiming thine friends’ flesh and exiled thou to the Woods for too long. Lead thy village into revolt and retake the fields that thou hath toiled in for many moons. The land be yours as the King hath never once dug his hands into the Earth.

9. Hang Thine King
Let thou be honest, he deserveth it.

10. Pray To Thine Lorde
Thou hath risen and overthrown thine King, but it seems that thou can no longer outrun the Black Death! It hath come as punishment for thine sins of lying, regicide and thievery. The pustules have already invaded thine fingers and it is time to pray for thy wicked ways. Good morrow!