Today, the world decided that no matter what I did, it would find some improbable way to try to kill me. Right now, if I were to pierce myself with my pen and discover that this pot is filed with bituminous poison instead of ink, it would not really come as a surprise.
We passed through Iona and headed for Rona. You might expect me to say we were ambushed by brigands, given that introductory paragraph, but that is simply too realistic a scenario. We traveled in perfect safety until arriving at the labor camp. Then a mud puddle sprouted arms and tried to drag us into itself to drown.
I nimbly made my way onto and along a rooftop (after posting Vivaldi, of course — I’m not that nimble) to avoid the murderous muck. Then a ghost burst up out of the rooftop to make that a less-than-ideal vantage.
I clambered down on the other side of the building, out of the puddle’ s reach. So a neighboring building’s door exploded open, broken down by a giant monster sewn together out of normal-sized monsters. Charming.
I fled, skirting around the perimeter of the death puddle, but the creature was tenacious. In order to get away from him, I ended up climbing another building, jumping into the air, and seating myself on a magic staff I have that doesn’t fall when activated.
I was literally flying! What could possibly show up to kill me in the sky?
Well, I’ll tell you, but you won’t believe me. Out of the building whose roof I was perching on walks none other than Tristan Lovett. Yes, the one who was caught putting his you-know-what you-know-where on you-know-who an hour before their wake was scheduled to begin.
He has apparently become adept in some ludicrous form of murder magic that he immediately started flinging at me. There is little in this world that can turn my stomach, as you know, but I can’t bear the thought of what might have happened to me if he had managed to render me deceased.
To escape that repulsive fate, I dove straight through the roof. (Thatch, natch.) Inside, I would be able to hide, ambush the pervert, and fight on my own terms.
Or I would have, if he hadn’t simply decided to set the building on fire.
On the plus side, I managed to liberate a truly beautiful amount of wealth that he was planning to abandon to the fire. On the minus side, I succumbed to smoke inhalation, collapsed, and would have died if the dwarf didn’t leap into action with some timely mouth-to-mouth. (For a truly horrifying moment after reviving, I thought it was Tristan getting ahead of himself.)
Eventually, this parade of improbable perils ran out of unlikely existential threats to throw at me. I was able to get a bit of information about his hag mistress out of Lovett, but I did have to cut all of his fingers off, and he managed to kill himself rather than continuing the interrogation.
No great loss. At least he can finally meet someone special on equal terms.
I do hope that your preparations have gone quickly. It seems the hag is moving against Yhilport must faster than I thought she was. We will make our way to your defense with all possible haste. Frankly, I suspect I’ll be handing you this letter personally, but I do find taking a moment to write to you a pleasant habit.
Best of luck,