Dear Bluef Vor'ad, the Sleepy Wench (or whatever ridiculous,
presumptuous, and supposedly meaningful title you give yourself),

In the interest of brevity, and with hopes that you will decline to
respond meaningfully, and choose once again to immediately change the
subject and attempt to portray a moral and verbal victory, I simply
would like to ask (in one very long, and one very brief sentence) how
you can possibly be honest in your implicit thought that the
Spiritwalkers have chosen to wage war on you with words (words, which,
as best I can tell, come voluntarily from third parties who have little
to no stake in the matter) after the fear was so apparent in your eyes
as you fled to your bed and then your ship, so obvious in Skiderion's
eyes as he attempted to contain the contents of his bowels, and so very
unmistakable in your husband's eyes as he fled the realms right in the
middle of a contest of wills.

I also would like to inquire as to the status of your husband, as I have
not seen him since he mysteriously disappeared, taking with him roughly
six feet, socks, and shoes with him into the abyss (presumably still
lodged firmly within his rectum).

Ta

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Daedalan, in the year 575 AF.