My lowest ebb in out-of-nowhere city-builder hit Dawn of Man was not when raiders slaughtered 18 of my people while they were calmly picking pears, or when three of my guys collapsed in the snow because I'd ordered them to spend the winter hauling a bus-sized rock across a mountain range (I wanted to build a henge, you see).
No, it was the Great Goat Plague. 43 of the buggers succumbed to some fatal goat lurgy, contracted because my braying friends knocked hooves faster than I could possibly build stables to house all the resultant goatlings. Because they consumed hay faster than a half-dozen grain fields could possibly re-grow. The goat-horde was thus shivering and starving when the frosts came, an open door to some terrible infection, centuries before vets were invented.
There was no cure for the goatpocalypse. It ravaged my prehistoric tribe's trouser-nibbling livestock. Frankly, it was a relief.
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