A brother weeps!

frill

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frill
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lofty sugden
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[ an.. advertisement? Is sung around the towns by fat little elven boys, clearly orphans of conflicts long passed. Each have pairs of wire-and-hempen wings hooked to their backs, as if dressed as Puckish cherubim. Their cheeks are stuffed with so much bread and milk that they can do little but spit and huff, their lispy hacks and wheezes reciting Lord Hectimere's lament at the loss of his sister to a dastardly vampire. ]

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Fie! How mine own heart breaks to be told telled,
Mine own sister hast been sent off this mortal hell,
It fits well that such a villain is such man she held,
It were of my will; the which you should respect well
To rend it mineself, in years of long yore in that Fyrmanny affair.
I will not be endur'd to be robb'd of this dignity!

A scathing trick! I do wrong my hand much and ask Mytra (and dear reader afore me) to inform me with cheerful choler.
What must I, brother-Exarch of Elfmarch and yet a brother by blood scorned, think?

Answers on postcards.
Addr. Elfmarch.

Hect. d R.
 
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