Love Letters... And More Bruises

Recieved yet another beating from Hog Hermin. That makes three this past day.

Just after I finished scrawling my last entry in this sorry excuse for a journal I trudged miserably down from my "room" (if you can call that rat-infested pit a room) down to the chambers of my Lousy Lord and Monkey-Faced Master, Hermin de Quillion.
He then proceeded to kick the stuffing out of me for no reason.
Having finished that, he handed me a heavy scroll of fancy parchment tied with an acid green ribbon and told me to go and deliver it to Mistress Aryssa's quarters. At the top of the highest damned tower in this whole damned castle.

I always have to take letters to Aryssa. Heathen Hermin fancies her something rotten and is constantly sending her letters of love, adoration, worship and other such soporific garbage.
No prizes for guessing who has to carry them.
Aryssa hates these accursed letters almost as much as I do. She seems to think His Foulness is stalking her and throws the things in the fire the moment I drop them into her hand. She generally always tells me to tell Stinker to get stuffed and leave her alone. When I deliver these replies, Blobby goes into a major depression stage and sits around listening to sad music and bewailing his misfortune.
After beating me to a pulp of course.

I really don't see why he bothers. Aryssa is young, attractive, rich and has more suitors than I have bruises (which let me tell you is a heck of a lot!) Why she would be interested in a grumpy, fat, ancient, wrinkly old man who smells distinctly of frog guts is beyond me.
But none the less, His Thickness always sends me off with more letters within about three hours.

There's a fine line between persistence and delusion.

Hermin has crossed the line.

The End

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