You write anonymously of braying, little fool, and yet here I am, named, signed, and still speaking. While you hide behind a borrowed epithet and a farmyard metaphor.

You call me a donkey. I have been called worse by better. And I have so many deep wounds that one more anonymous and unknowing hate barely scratches. And I note, with professional appreciation, that your letter contains a pun "murder most fowl" which suggests that somewhere beneath the glabrous surface, there is a wit struggling to emerge. Let it out. Sign your name to it. That is what separates the jester from the coward: we say our foolish things in the open, where everyone can see our face.

Bray, you say. Neigh, you say.
I say: I am still here. Still named. Still talking.

You are still anonymous.
We have both made our choice.

Ruddra Rousseau
Trader, Alchemist, Former Citizen of Hashan
The stubborn donkey who writes back

Penned by my hand on the 1st of Ero, in the year 1005 AF.