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Callahan had been resting, his health having taken a turn for the worst. The wounds afforded his spirit had rendered him both spiritually and physically ill. He was gripped by fevers, and restless sleep, and troubled looping thoughts with little coherence and no satisfactory end, all the consequences of the sudden and abrupt loss of his charism. In his weakness, he had set Father Montfort in control of the affairs of the Archdiocese, but having not come to him when he called, he did not know if he had known it himself, though he only seldom had a moment to worry for such a thing, as his mind was otherwise entirely occupied by worsening plight. He grew increasingly silly. Silly, whimsical, a little wacky. His failing mind took refuge in the ancient defender of his people, his patron, and the patron of the Kingdom he now dwelled, the patron too of the Cathedral which he had the blessing to call home. Saint Caius, Saint Caius, so innocent, so pure, for now his only respite, fore the good Clown King's crowning accomplishment was his spiritual safety in the Lord's Humor, so potent a guard as to preserve his own life, even when by all reasonable accounts he had ought to have been slain at the foot of that mountain in the Westerlands.


"My good patron, Saint Caius... not any woe of the world could whittle away at you, fore you had found a friend in God through the spreading of laughter. Verily, you were a prince of laughter. Good Saint Caius, for all that they had done to you, for the hammer your own people sent down upon your head, for all the treason, and all the back-stabbenings, and all the skullduggery, you slept, and wept, and woke again in laughter, what you found they could not take away, the perfect peace, the pure, true innocence! Whimsy, whimsy, to the addled heart, the cure of all cures, for this they called you Doctah Talbot. Saint Caius, intercede for us! Saint Caius, pray for me! Saint Caius, keep bright thy fires, watch over the Church, fore you were a Clerical Owynist before even a man knew the thing to be possible, champion of the True Faith. Saint Caius, keep us laughing, guide us in our jubilance that we may hear the joyous ROAR of the Flame of Owyn in cavort, so pleased, so joyou--"


And Canonius had entered, having come to visit him. He was a strong young man. A resident troublemaker-- but True Faith often brought many to trouble before. Angry, for certain, for many reasons, but a Flepir, he could tell. He didn't think he ever told him. He thought of Belegorn much the same, but now, in his weakness, he knew not if he could express it. When he spoke, only babble came from him, which even he no-longer could understand. But he realized he had drifted off into his own thoughts, snapping to attention, having missed Canonius' polite introduction, hearing only some kvetching now. "Eh!?!?"


It was a missive. He couldn't make sense of Canonius, at the moment, who had grown flustered by whatever it was, and had destroyed it, or else he did not bring it with him. He managed to order him off to find him a copy, and shambled over to his desk. Some little scrolls secured in tubes had piled up there, local missives delivered regularly to him. One bore the seal of the Tar, the label reading  'IMPORATANT' in that unmistakable Adunian script down the length of its side. There it is. He opened it, and he read. 




"Get me a pen!" he called out, as his sorry wide eyes had only barely managed make it through the whole of the missive. He was calling to Canonius, but he had forgotten if he was even there anymore, or if he had left. He didn't bother to look, he could hardly take his eyes off the page. For some moments he paced, back and forth between the room, staring at it, through it, through to something beyond it which he could not pry his eyes away from, either for terror, anger, or awe. It had struck him.


"Now," he spoke, "now, now, of course it is now. Of course, now that I am sick, now that I am suffering, now that I am on my deathbed, now!" and the horrible grim vision of what was in play around him unfolded before his eyes, the slow encroaching march of paynimry growing ever closer, crawling its way in, patient, patient and scaling the walls, and digging through and under them-- better to be sure, fore if one way failed the other would not, they were a people so easily distracted, so easily deceived, and he saw it. 


"Now, tick, now that Harren tock is impotent, tick now that he is tock withering away, casting tick his vocation to the wayside tock and thrown the cup tick into the gutter! tock." he threw up a hand, to beg for silence, "What is that?" he called, "tick That noise." he added, since no one had bid him any words to which he could say that he were replying to. He gazed about the room. When did they get a clock? He never remembered there to be a clock. He didn't see one. But it was ticking. It had begun, and now, it would not cease. It did not so much as agitate him, as it had alarmed him, and he took to searching. 


A cabinet on the wall. With unexpected ease, he removed it from its place, as though it were simply slotted in. And there, hitherto concealed, was the source of the noise.


Those persnickety Mech-Lectors! They had spoken to him only in passing of the work they had done below Saint Caius', and only made short, brief mention of the 'engines', whatever they had powered or moved or were responsible for. This, he thought, was one such mechanism to that great mysterious contraption. He gazed upon Harren's Clock, which had begun to tick over the course of these events, and made no sign that it had intended to cease until it were through with whatever mission had been put to it, with whatever driving force behind it were satisfied that the contraption had carried out its instructions, and that it may proceed; to what ends, he did not know, but that there was an end he did not doubt, fore if it were a machine for the keeping of time, for certain, it would have before given itself away by virtue of its TICK, TOCK, TICK, which permeated the room, now, without end! 


So why?


A righteous fury burnt in him. He had known a Flame before, nurtured it, served it, bent and bowed at its every whim to his great joy, to lift and bear the skirts of its robes, to sing to it, dance for it, fight for it, to speak for it when it had deemed it necessary that a thing be said, and to work for it when it was necessary that a thing be done which he could do. He knew the Flame very well, and he shared in the satisfaction of the Light which shone from it down unto the world, into every place, bringing order upon ever thing, in as much as all things good in some way trail back to the source, and the Light of the Flame was that source, the rays of Grace, the Light, the trail of that path from Creator to Created. But being a Harrenite his familiarity with the Flame always had been more a thing of the receiving end, his introduction to it coming fierce, and sudden, a burning blade plunged in and through his chest and igniting his heart with pure redeeming life. He knew it more by where it had come to reside in him by the virtue of his wounds, from the beating of his heart, from the love of the flame bestowed upon him in condemnation and wrath, contrasted so bitterly with the pure and unrelenting love that IT IS.


He was more familiar with the vexation of it, the upset of the spirit on the blade, for the violation of its Will, for which he had come also to share in joined frustration. That it should be sent to the heart of that which it loved in a way it did not allow. He came to share, over the course of his service, in communion with that Will, the upset that it had known for the path it had set and was not respected, ploughed over, walked upon and only briefly intersected, that Man could cross the road, but not dwell on it, not remain on it, not head straight-forward to the place where the road had been paved, which was set out for him well before he was born. He knew better the great shame of one king who called out for mercy, to be pierced, to be so suddenly and violently subjected to the Fire of the Wrath of the Lord and burnt by it, one might say irreparably if but the Flame's purpose was not itself to repair. 


But now he felt  more in his fury the Man with the blade set out before Edel. He felt more that he had held it in his hands, the Blade and Flame, odd, and alien to the Man who had for all his spiritual life known the Flame from where it had come to reside in the hole in his chest. He was furious for what he had come to see, for what he knew would come to pass. He ground his teeth, and gnashed them. They had set upon his nation like a plague. They had sweeped over it, and enslaved them, and defiled all things their power had set over, profane power, impossible power that was itself a denial of the TRUE POWER that IS, and was proven that IT IS for that IT IS upon the Blade and ALWAYS WAS, fore it had no potential NOT TO BE. It was a crime even to say WAS. IT IS, there is no past, no future without it, no potential even for there to be, HE IS THAT HE IS, ALWAYS IS, SHALL-- but shall, no, He Is always Is.


There was no King in Alduun, but there was a Bishop in Idunia. He reached in and set his hands upon Harren's Clock, and set back the hand which ticked onward and forward unrelenting towards an uncertain doom, the consequence of the impotence of the King, a King who was born to be a King but through his own failings might never be a King again, he had not deserved any Kingdom. More, he saw, in his humbling upon the ground, in those moments of pleading for mercy before the Fire of Mercy and the Wrath of the Lord, he saw, he never was. They say that all Prophets were King, Horen King Godfrey King Owyn King, now he knew better. He met the King on the Blade, the King of Love, the King of Life, the King of Man, the King of Heaven, the King of Arda, the Pantokrator who's throne his own father Horen had seen himself, forever sealing the covenant of Man and Maker, King of Heaven.


Having set back the clock, he turned about and hovered over the desk of his father Toni, of the tabernacle of his Father Horen. He took the pen into his hands, and set to paper in that empty place upon a scroll where Virtue ended and Forever Future Preserved remained to be, but wasn't yet. He looked to the Holy Grail, the Kos Rashon, which had so rightly made him wretch and reel a poisoned man, and saw that it now came also into its wrath, active, alive, and that it shook, it filled to the brim and beyond it, overflowing blood upon the parchment, upon the whole of the world. It threatened not to cease until it was drained to the dregs.







TO YOU WHO HAVE FALLEN ASLEEP IN THE FEAR OF THE MENACE OF THE DRUIDS, I WARN, I CONDEMN, I DOUSE YOU IN COLD WATER, AWAKE, AWAKE, YOU WHO HAVE FALLEN ASLEEP, AWAKE! Why have you relaxed in your guard!? Why have you bent-weary over the spear, and made to shut your eyes and NAP? Do you take now greedily to your kip, in the heights of your tolerance, that you should permit right under your nose the Enemy to come upon you? Could you not stand guard for just an hour more? Could you not wait even a little while longer before giving yourself so freely over to THE ENEMY when you have only just MOMENTS AGO become free and rid of him, REDEEMED and FREE?


Only some centuries ago had you, ye people of Harren, returned from GOLUS, the EXILE of SPIRIT set upon you by Druid and the Fae, the great evil regime of the Unclean Spirits, who now you cherish, and tell tall-tales of, and bring into your home as honored guests. Have you so quickly forgotten the way by which you had fallen in the wake of the fall of Owyn? Have you forgotten the crimes of these creatures who had bid even the sons of Malin turn against him, and tyrannize him, their own father?


Have you forgotten, so soon after your return into the embrace of the True Faith, the perils and woes of slavery under them, which you had suffered for more than a thousand years? Has the woe of your mothers slipped from you, the tears of the daughters of Harren, who for the trees, the moss, and the bogs, and the frogs and snakes, gave up their young children to nourish?


For your tolerance, I warn you, I slap you across the face, I rebuke you! I say to you that now, as it always it had been, these creatures who have preyed upon you were no creatures at all, and that nature which you have revered was not nature but ALIEN, I say to you that every tree they spake spoke to you was a devil, that every moss which you had worshiped was a demon, that every bog you had fed was an invader, that the frogs and the snakes and all the little rodents who plagued you were not rodents at all but the agents of the PACT OF THE ENEMY!


But you shall say to me Father, Bishop, we do not worship these things, nor do we revere them, but respect only the nature which is the mastercraft of God, we do not forget.


But to that I say to you, I have seen you more reverent in the sight of TREES than I have seen you reverent in the sight of the Holy Truth! I have seen this, fore that I have seen that you should surround yourselves with all manner of devils, with cursed-ones and with druids, and seen no anger from you, no righteous fury for those your sworn-enemy, and no suspicion for those appearing even outwardly as devils.


But I have seen also from you that you should clamor and wage war-immediate upon any who have defiled what your heart holds to be sacred. No devils do you accost, but should Garf'iaeld Kha-jeet encroach upon these things, and dare to put his paws upon them and scratch to his contentedness, you enter at once into a fury, and say, these creatures shall be condemned, let them be condemned, you set upon them without remorse and slay them without remorse, you hammer them, you bring swift death to them. 


You shall say to me Bishop, these devils you speak of are no devils at all, but they are cursed and false evils! I say to you that this much I know well, but say that knowing this, you are worse condemned, still do I rebuke you! You have seen in your midst those of the appearance of demons, and you have not suspected them. You have seen in your midst those whom you know to be evil, in the appearance of the Mali’im, and you have not suspected them. Should I bring to you a devil from the depths, pluck him from the retinue of Iblis, and see you walk past him as though he were invisible? 


To you I say, you have become blind to all evils, you have tolerated too greatly your enemy, it matters not if he comes to you in disguise or in the truth of his flesh, fore neither sight should disturb you! The Father of Lies has pulled the wool over your head, you have become blind to your enemies and archenemies, you have become blind to friend and to foe.


And you hear me say to you these things, you to me saying, Bishop, we know our creatures, we know a devil from an innocent and an innocent from a devil, we are hunters of the evil-ones, and we have classified them. So too have we classified many creatures for their evils and for their goods, that we should not be ignorant, but know by their genus the good of them or the wrong.


Harren's sons, have you grown so ignorant!? It is for this list that I rebuke you, I slap you, I condemn you, and empty unto your heads the WATERS OF WAKE, feel the sting of the cold and open now your eyes, you have been deceived! 


You have assembled a list, and on it have you mistook the good and the noble, and with it you have lessened the good and softened the evil, fore all these things do you attribute to the Faeries, who are the masses of the unclean spirits, your enemies, those things which are the great glory of the Creation of the Lord. You have taken miracles of God and said, 'Here I see a Fae that is good!' where only was the goodness of God, fore there is no good in the spirits of the Enemy. 


And in bringing forth those things which are good, and saying they are Fae, you have defiled them, defiled them! You have been caught in the plot of a sweeping lie, fore to say that one thing is good Fae you have said that Fae are good, you have permitted the ENEMY into the sheepfold, you have not taken his name nor counted him, but you have counted those around him by their proximity to a black sheep. But you say, these sheep are so alike to the black sheep, see how they move together, they are one good! For that the white-pure sheep surround him, he surely is good, I pay him no heed.





Let us now see this list of things you have blessed, and things you have cursed, and see the truth of it:


Here are those things 'among the Fae' which you have blessed!


GNOMES - Who are those most upstanding creatures of ingenuity, LITTLE HOREN'S TRIBE, the cousin of the HOBBIT who too has grown short, here you set a descendant of Man and Woman among the aliens, as though he were himself an alien. For his so short a stature you say he must surely not be Man. But the alien has cursed many a people before, and one need only see to ha Ben Urist for the proof that the enemy makes the tall and mighty short and stout. Fear the persecution of the Gnome, and greet him a brother: in his veins pulses Horen's Covenant, for no curse shall he be apart from his Father in Heaven, and for no curse shall he be severed from his father Horen.


FAIRIES - And you do so condemn all whom you have joined with them, I say to you, the black-coated WOLF who had conned you into clothing him with LIVING SHEEP, see that all you place on this list besides the AGENT OF THE BETRAYER is a hostage, a wolf's teeth are seconds from his neck. Should he not be rescued, he shall surely perish. THE FAIRIES ARE UNCLEAN SPIRITS, JOINED TOGETHER IN A DARK COVENANT OF REBELLION AGAINST THE LORD GOD, WITH ALL THE DEMONIC POSSESSORS OF NATURE, WHO HAVE WARPED IT, AND SET ASIDE THEIR DUTY TO THE LORD FOR TO RAISE THE BANNER OF A BLACK DEMESNE. WOE! WOE! See that this banner is black, but they have told you it is green, and for that you so love the Creation of the Lord you say 'It is holy and green as Arda.' Harren's seed, you suffer now the deception which was the destruction of Malinor. Apostasy is the only fruit of the dead tree of the Alien.


BROWNIES - And you set a sheep against around the wolf of HaSatan. But see that these brownies are not of your granny's make, but they have been tainted with the poisons of the grove, that whoever shall eat shall wake to see the FAERING. SONS OF HOREN, Seed of HARREN, do you not weep? You know what I tell you is true, and your elders cringe and seethe, but only the Mali'im shall you hear cope, fore it is their father Malin a Prophet they have betrayed, and it is Malinor they have crumbled for these rings, all this your forefathers had known and suffered, all this your elders know well. Never again shall the faithful of the Lord succumb to such evils, Harren, do not go again unto your death! For you did Owyn fight, and you had resisted him not knowing the goods of the service he rendered you, for the good of you he killed even your own kinsmen to prevent your doom, the Prophet Purifier made you once clean-pure, but the Deceiver has since set his eyes upon you, and blessed by his order that you be dragged away a slave to the woodlands sprites. So what Iblis has done unto Malin, he does also unto you, and as Malin's Sons betrayed Malin for the Enemy, so too do you betray your fathers Owyn and Horen for the enemy. 


SKAVEN -  And here you bless also the DOOM-PLAGUE RAT-SWARM EVILDOERS, yes, you who are so wise, you make an exception for the WARPED-RATS, which you do not give to Garf'iaeld Khajeet, whom you condemn, and so do you also condemn all other animals of their likeness, to your wisdom, fore you know them to be alien. Horen's Sons, ask not if they are of the right breed of abomination, fore all SIN is EVIL SIN, there is no grading of evils. What is offensive to the LORD is offensive to the LORD, there is no part between them. All would Owyn cast from you that you should not succumb. But ask rather, Horen's Sons, Faithful of the Lord, who cling to the worship of the Melech-Tzaddik of Mercy; how have these creatures come to be? They are the spawn of the insanity of the host of HaSatanail, who has brought cursed, warped forms into the world, that they may live a walking mockery of nature's perfection. But HaSatanail may not himself be the craftsman of life, what you set your eyes upon are your kindred in torment, wrapped in the flesh of FAT ORANGE CATS, and LARGE RATS, and INNOCENT MONKIES, they are the victims of a curse. Seek rather to help and to cure, but whoever does not say 'I am accursed,' you may not help, cast him from your midst lest he sow in you more lie, he has found a new Father in the Deceiver.


THE SONG BIRD, THE UNICORN, THE GRIFFIN - You place these things of truth and FACT, who dwell within our wonder-world of God's great make, among the ranks of the accursed. For why may you not fathom that THE LORD YOUR GOD, CREATOR is not a WORKER OF WONDERS? You have heard of such things and said, they are too wonderous to know, they must have been the work of a greater craftsman. Who is greater in his craft than the Lord your God? In saying these things, you say by the silence of your heart that the flame of your faith grows miniscule!


TALKING DONKIES -  'Lo and see that now you defame even Balaam's Ass! Sweet Sons of Horen, have you forgotten the tale? But you attribute the speech of the mule to be the work of the Fae, when God has commanded that it speak, which may not otherwise speak but for a miracle, for the teaching of a prophet, and to spare the taking of his life. Has God worked no miracles among you, that you should not believe in them, but know only the power of the Fae, your arch-nemesis?


JENNY - WOE, WOE, WOE UNTO YOU, FOR YOU DO I WEEP! From Heaven to you comes a Spirit of Innocence, a gift to you from the hands of the Lord who so loves you, that you should not fall into ABOMINATION but be as WHITE SHEEP, CLEAN, PURE AND INNOCENT. Idunia, your hearts have been opened to the INFESTATION OF LIES, who scurry about you as a thousand voices singing the temptation of the unclean spirits. Even do they say to you that the Lord of Hosts has not himself any Aenguls to spare, and that they instead have given to you what has come down from Heav'n, the gem of the sheepfold of the Seven Skies, the fruit of the joy of the Canticles of Saint Caius, for all the Divine Humor they afford. But just as nature was to you a gift, so too are all gifts turned-sour by the Druids and their masters. 


The accosting of any of these things, you say, is a upon whimsy and innocence. But to you I write, I warn, I rebuke, you have waged a war on whimsy, you have taken what is innocent and used him a shield for EVILE. The evil ones have commanded you to give shelter to the Fae, and into your tent has he sent many Druids. Into your gardens of beauty he sends seers, and you hear what commands they bid of you, for your love of true nature. But of all who live and breathe, you should know best that the grass does not speak, nor do the trees sing, or does the rock babble, God has given these things no mouths to speak, no ears to hear, no language to babble, they are without speech and without want, they exist only to the glory of God. The druid is accosted by Devils whom they call the 'Aspects of Nature', who are in truth Daemons joined together into a covenant of WORLD-DOMINATION in defiance of God. And in his soul does he hear the screech of these demons, and convey them to you. They convey to you also the soothing songs and well-weaved lies which had moved them to sell their own souls to these devils, fore it is that they have sold themselves forever as slaves that they are able at all to hear. 


They will tell you the will of the trees, and that your deeds make them so very wroth. And they shall teach you to respect and revere them as though they were lords over you, screeching at the top of their lungs if ever a plant is wounded around them, fore verily the demon screeches when his will is defiled and skreams terribly, this is in the ears of the Mali'im when their masters are humiliated. The unclean spirits have gone into the woods only in as much as the Druid has brought them with him as a throne and house for their own masters. Put a hand upon a bush while near stands a Druid, hear him screech, and the bush shall strike you. But wait for him to leave, and again put a hand upon the bush, and see that the bush cares not for you, fore it cares not at all. You have not seen the hitherto concealed will of the wilds, you have seen the tyranny of the Alien. You have not been struck by a bush, you have been struck by HaSatanail.  Should you truly believe that where all men step, the countless screams of the blades of grass under his boot cry out in pain? 

The pain of the Enemy is the love of God. The screech of the devil comes not from the pain of grass, but from the pain of life in a world shared by Man.



Barukh attah Adonai eloheinu melech ha-olam, borei peri hagafen.



Blessed are You, L-RD our G-D, King of the Universe, Pantokrator, who chose us from all peoples and exalted us from all tongues, and sanctified us with His prophets. And You gave to us, L-RD our G-D, with love appointed times for gladness, festivals and times for joy, the day that I raise this cup of medicine, the time of our freedom, a holy convocation, a memorial of our deliverance from the Druids of Malinor. Fore You chose us and sanctified us from all the all the spawn of Man and the festivals of your holiness, in gladness and in joy You gave us a heritage. Blessed are You, L-RD, who sanctifies Horen and the seasons, who set forth all true nature.


Edited by Fleeperpriest
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"Holy Lector Callahan!" Lector Theodore Kaczynski Brae would say upon reading the missive offered to him.

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Xob Wobson, Elder of the Gnomes and Wisecap of Oblazekos read over the missive from his home afar, placing it down with a nod "Oi nae know whoi people think Oi'm ah faereh. . . Oi'm clearleh just ah man, ah man whose race was given powah boi teh Ancients. . ." said the little fellow.

Mogurix vo Uxelosii, Frankish warrior and tribal leader also read over the missive, sighing as he folded it to place away "My tribe did not convert just to have those who claim to be the most virtuous align with and tolerate the profane that mimics and despoils my own people's myths and those of the Elder Sages. I pray to GOD and ask the Ancestors to guide the Men of Harren to see their fault. . ." spoke the Frank.

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"I'm getting too old to be able to read this..." Morgan groaned, soaking his skewered knee. He could only decipher the missive through squinted eyes, ever impermeable was its meaning even then. Such as it always was with his old friend, Callahan.

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Stefan Euler yawned as he saw the missive. He gave it a once-over for about three seconds, before tossing it behind him. "Whatever Callahan says is probably true!"

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Tar-Caraneth Aryantë did not listen for she was far, far to busy lining doorways with salt and preparing traps to capture awful, terrible soul-reaving pixies before they might try un-soul-ifying her children and stealing her people's corgis for war-steeds! The horror! No, such a thing would never come to pass. She refused this fate. She would spit in the face of the Pixie Queen, a curse be upon her court, and grind her little pixie wings into powder with which to make glitter for her arts and crafts.

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Through the power of the Euler Max caffeinated drink, Regina manages to read the whole missive. "I niet think I ever heard Callahan say something wrong, now I can also say I niet ever saw him write anything wrong."

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Jenny could not read but she recognized her own name upon the missive and smiled. Something she had been practicing. And so the spirit of whimsy did seek to FEEL the missive. The words osmosizing into her very psyche as she peer toward it from unorthodox sideward gaze. She understood now. These trees had no mouths? Who knew! Perhaps the things she heard all the time whilst gazing into space were something else. Perhaps people. Regardless Jenny now soon came to understand that she was a sheep. This was very shocking. And so cold water was splashed upon her face, slapped, battered, AWOKEN, to the crimes of the dirt people. She thought to POOR GAR'FIALD THE FAT ORANGE VICTIM. WHO SHE HAD HELPED MANY CENTURIES AGO TO FULFILL HIS DREAM OF BECOMING A WORLD FAMOUS COMEDIAN. She thought back to his fat stupid orange monday hating cavity that was directly in his chest, never again would she hear him explain the joke right after he said it. She considered how many cats animals scratch trees in nature ARE THEY TO BE EXECUTED AS WELL???? SHALL WE TAKE TO THE FOREST AND GUT EVERY CLAWED BEAST WHO DARE SCRATCH THE VERY BARK THEY LIVE BENEATH Though the worst crime of all was the chutzpah to go so far as to arbitrarily connect her to a bandage wearing monkey boy who lives in a zoo? AN INSULT. TO THEM I REBUKE YOU! Jenny slapped the paper as if anyone could hear her think. I WILL HANG MY HAMMOCK ON THE TREE!! I WILL STAND AROUND THE TREE!!!! IT DOES NOT CARE FOR IF THEY CARED THEN THE BURNING BUSH ITSELF SHOULD HAVE WRITHED IN AGONY!


Jenny nodded. Satisfied with the new thought embossed into her brain. She rolled over and went to sleep in her tree hammock.

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A local hobbit didn't read most of this, but thinks this priest probably can't reclaim the H word.


. . . . .or maybe he can.

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The Turtle Knight sat in the smoke filled room of the Adrian tavern in the early hours of the morning, without the slightest movement or sound he read the entirety of Callahan's missive thoroughly, twice, though the darkened steel mask of his helmet would hide any reaction he might make. He placed the missive upon the nearest empty spot on his desk, besides all the others, before lighting his 17 blunt of the day.

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