Dear Squire Inagin,

I wish to congratulate you on finally killing me. After harassing you
for how many decades, you've finally managed to do it! It truely is a
momentous day for Shakiniel's Charge! You truely follow in your mother's
footsteps.

Presuming you killed me more often. And did it faster without the help
of your little buddies.

Oh, yes, it was a group combat, I know. It was a raid, I was there. I
don't exactly care about that, but I get the impression from how you hit
me, you need to really work on your skills. Even Sir Raikogen, a Dove,
hit harder than you. Of course, he actually had a reproductive organ in
his armour, at least, one that's visible. He knew how to slay people,
and when they snapped back, the retorts he could give!

Ah, such a wonderous day, to run naked and screaming onto the
battlefield, only to be tackled by the lovely Lady Malicia. The feel of
metal on skin, the way her armour crushed my ribcage before she ran off
to kill people who are important, you could take a few pages from her
book. She spends her time, killing the enemies of the Light, targetting
useful, and dangerous people, by herself no less! And she looks good
doing it too. My regards to her, by the by.

Ah, more truely is the pity, Squire Inagin. It is my sincerest hope,
Shakiniel's Charge, for you to grow a pair of balls. It is, sadly, the
most I can hope for you to grow. I do not require a seer to tell me that
your response will be trite, and full of inane and poorly worded insults
which rather fit your mental capabilities, such as they are. You are
living proof that a pregnant woman should not battle the enemies of the
Light. The brain damage often leaves you a bit more empty headed than
the normal Knight of Dawn.

I feel pity for the Paladins, knowing that Shakiniel's Charge is more
Shakiniel's Vauge Saunter. Please, for the sake of the honour of the
Guild, replace the Squire with someone competant. You are only
embarassing yourselves keeping him in any position that requires a
functional brain. I have a brain that functions better than his, in the
name of Lady Terentia's Steel Panties!

XOXOXO

-Jigan d'Murani

Postscript: Does anyone know how to remove the smell of dead baby from
your pants? It's a long story, one which I'm not keen to tell, because
it involves that damned duck, the Razines, a full backpack, and no place
to put the merian woman's crying brat. I was saving the damn thing for
later, but no, it had to go and die in my pants. This is why merians are
an inferior race, they lack the ability to breathe in my pants. This is
also why they make very poor prostitutes, but no one really expects a
merian prostitute to last long in Magnagora anyways. It's a public
service, cleaning the streets of such filth. I mean, Merian, walking
around the city, exposing their fins. By Lord Fain's lest testicle, Lord
Slaughterbuggy, those shameless creatures needed to be taken off the
streets and murdered. What if the children saw Merian walking down the
street? Shameless! Outrageous! Not very good hookers though.

You can stop scribing now. No, really. Yes, I know what happened to the
last scribe who stopped without me telling him. No, I don't care that
you have a wife, a mistress, and four kids split between them. Look, I
have a knife, and I'm very indescriminate where I jam it. It might be
lethal, it might not, so let's just put th

Penned by my hand on the 19th of Roarkian, in the year 273 CE.