Apparently the mantle of responsibility of overseeing that wee village is too

much for your delicate and limited intelligence. Perhaps you were dropped on

your head as a child, repeatedly to the great amusement of your father the mule

and your mother the toothless whore. I suspect, however, you have overdosed

on the lemonaide that is served up constantly in the location where most thakrians

can be found on any given date, time, or season.

Written by my hand on the 24th of Ilmarael, in the year 1143.