Apparently the mantle of responsibility of overseeing that wee village is too
much for your delicate and limited intelligence. Perhaps you were dropped on
your head as a child, repeatedly to the great amusement of your father the mule
and your mother the toothless whore. I suspect, however, you have overdosed
on the lemonaide that is served up constantly in the location where most thakrians
can be found on any given date, time, or season.
Written by my hand on the 24th of Ilmarael, in the year 1143.