[This letter was directed to Luther Donisthrope, but since he is not around it is delivered to Mirielle]
Dear Luther Winespill,
Who, what, why?! Ask all you like, old chum, but just like the question as to which Velstran fucked your whore mother and ended up fathering you (Norbert, Nicholas, Ruul, maybe even the old Cheese-Dwarf?) I'm afraid you won't ever find the answers you're hoping for. Find another stooge to order around, you fat, bald, lazy, cowardly, honourless BASTARD.
Find another hapless sod to order around like a dog, and to beat black-and-blue when you're drunk. I've had enough. I'm not some animal to be made a spectacle of with spectators betting on the side-lines, and I've long been sick of how you spoke to Oswick. My stomach churned with disgust when you smiled ear to ear and bragged to me how the day that Ticker Square was torched and ravaged by the Peers, its people butchered and press-ganged into bonded servitude, how that grisly massacre was the "happiest day of your life". Truthfully, I should've quit long, long ago. I should've quit long before then, when you broke my jaw in front of Moretti over a contract YOU forced me to take, only to later change your mind about. I should've quit when Oswick threw his cloak down. I should've helped my one and only friend I'd ever made in this pigsty, should've stood for something, anything, but instead, I stuck it out in that humiliating position as your busboy for a measly eight dinar. Well, you ginger djinni, eight dinar's no longer the price to my soul.
It's beyond laughable that you of all people deigned to call Oswick a liar, a thief, and a scoundrel, for in all my years I've never seen a man so craven, so devoid of principles as you. You bark and you boast about your honour all the while you tuck your knees, quivering by the cots like an addled old fool or a wet dog, your breeches damp with piss, your face pale from fright and eyes red from long nights of drinking, too scared to leave the Krak out of fear for your life at the slighest provocation or hint of violence not overwhelmingly in your favour.
So mighty the line of "DONISTHROPE", that their finest (and only) scion was so afraid of Reginald Goblinbane (an "inferior midget", mind you!) that he heroically and honourably chugged an invisibility potion and quickly ran back home to mummy, leaving behind a thin, wet trail of yellow on the sands. So truthful and virtuous is he, that he deals with the likes of Rowan Ramcrest, bowing most servile-like as he begs him to please, please, please assassinate a poor, helpless woman (I saw it with my own two eyes, you rat-bastard). What's the matter, bold sire, are you, the redoubtable Balestriere, too afraid to wet your own axe in performing one of the many murders you constantly boast about? No pit of spikes to toss her onto, no fortress-door to lock behind her?
And what a brilliant commander and fraternal brother this Winespill is, that the halls of La Banda's impregnable fortress is decked with the skulls of "disobedient" Reclute murdered at his hands, notches on his pilfered axe pridefully marking each soul severed; now no more than vengeful ghasts forever living out their eternal torment. What a leader, that he fills the barracks with crates on top of crates lazily piled about, each one chock-full of murderous trinkets and baubles intended to intimidate and remind our brother Kazadun how "inferior" he is to your manly and virile courage. Yes, you paint a brilliant picture, Luther: the picture of a fat, bloated rat. So vermin-like is your soul that I fear the curse that afflicts the Craven in the darker and deeper parts of the Gutters may soon come to afflict you! Care, my laird, that you don't grow whiskers or a tail— I wouldn't wish for you to become a Changeling, o' ye noblest lord of lords amongst Peers, because then you'd have to fall on your own sword (honour demands it!) and what a shame it would be to lose you!
Seeing how much you adore that tidbit in La Banda Rossa's history where La Capitana descended into the streets with her flunkeys, toadies, and thugs and heroically hacked the people of Oretenes to pieces in that grand betrayal, it should come as no surprise to you that I've decided to, in the same Rossan fashion, jump ship. I only wish I had the courage to jam my knife into your throat while you're busy downing more swill (that Velstran blood runs thick!)— maybe you'd have appreciated the irony, huh? Unfortunately, this letter will have to suffice in lieu of your (much needed) extermination. This all being said...
I QUIT!!
Dear Luther Winespill,
Who, what, why?! Ask all you like, old chum, but just like the question as to which Velstran fucked your whore mother and ended up fathering you (Norbert, Nicholas, Ruul, maybe even the old Cheese-Dwarf?) I'm afraid you won't ever find the answers you're hoping for. Find another stooge to order around, you fat, bald, lazy, cowardly, honourless BASTARD.
Find another hapless sod to order around like a dog, and to beat black-and-blue when you're drunk. I've had enough. I'm not some animal to be made a spectacle of with spectators betting on the side-lines, and I've long been sick of how you spoke to Oswick. My stomach churned with disgust when you smiled ear to ear and bragged to me how the day that Ticker Square was torched and ravaged by the Peers, its people butchered and press-ganged into bonded servitude, how that grisly massacre was the "happiest day of your life". Truthfully, I should've quit long, long ago. I should've quit long before then, when you broke my jaw in front of Moretti over a contract YOU forced me to take, only to later change your mind about. I should've quit when Oswick threw his cloak down. I should've helped my one and only friend I'd ever made in this pigsty, should've stood for something, anything, but instead, I stuck it out in that humiliating position as your busboy for a measly eight dinar. Well, you ginger djinni, eight dinar's no longer the price to my soul.
It's beyond laughable that you of all people deigned to call Oswick a liar, a thief, and a scoundrel, for in all my years I've never seen a man so craven, so devoid of principles as you. You bark and you boast about your honour all the while you tuck your knees, quivering by the cots like an addled old fool or a wet dog, your breeches damp with piss, your face pale from fright and eyes red from long nights of drinking, too scared to leave the Krak out of fear for your life at the slighest provocation or hint of violence not overwhelmingly in your favour.
So mighty the line of "DONISTHROPE", that their finest (and only) scion was so afraid of Reginald Goblinbane (an "inferior midget", mind you!) that he heroically and honourably chugged an invisibility potion and quickly ran back home to mummy, leaving behind a thin, wet trail of yellow on the sands. So truthful and virtuous is he, that he deals with the likes of Rowan Ramcrest, bowing most servile-like as he begs him to please, please, please assassinate a poor, helpless woman (I saw it with my own two eyes, you rat-bastard). What's the matter, bold sire, are you, the redoubtable Balestriere, too afraid to wet your own axe in performing one of the many murders you constantly boast about? No pit of spikes to toss her onto, no fortress-door to lock behind her?
And what a brilliant commander and fraternal brother this Winespill is, that the halls of La Banda's impregnable fortress is decked with the skulls of "disobedient" Reclute murdered at his hands, notches on his pilfered axe pridefully marking each soul severed; now no more than vengeful ghasts forever living out their eternal torment. What a leader, that he fills the barracks with crates on top of crates lazily piled about, each one chock-full of murderous trinkets and baubles intended to intimidate and remind our brother Kazadun how "inferior" he is to your manly and virile courage. Yes, you paint a brilliant picture, Luther: the picture of a fat, bloated rat. So vermin-like is your soul that I fear the curse that afflicts the Craven in the darker and deeper parts of the Gutters may soon come to afflict you! Care, my laird, that you don't grow whiskers or a tail— I wouldn't wish for you to become a Changeling, o' ye noblest lord of lords amongst Peers, because then you'd have to fall on your own sword (honour demands it!) and what a shame it would be to lose you!
Seeing how much you adore that tidbit in La Banda Rossa's history where La Capitana descended into the streets with her flunkeys, toadies, and thugs and heroically hacked the people of Oretenes to pieces in that grand betrayal, it should come as no surprise to you that I've decided to, in the same Rossan fashion, jump ship. I only wish I had the courage to jam my knife into your throat while you're busy downing more swill (that Velstran blood runs thick!)— maybe you'd have appreciated the irony, huh? Unfortunately, this letter will have to suffice in lieu of your (much needed) extermination. This all being said...
I QUIT!!