I bring a message to Lord Stuttersteppe (also known as Guiseppe for some reason), Catastrophe of his pants.
His Stutterness decides to recant an edited and entirely biased version of events for himself;
however, I do not blame him. Bandying words with even the skill of a novice squire's sword escapes him.
A full retelling would take many moons and copious amounts of ale to dull the pain of overexposure.
His Stutterness came with his end in sight: leave the unowned desert because he claimed it by right.
Give you boots filled with troops and possibly form an alliance? Ridiculous!
Dibs? Hah, my ribs! They creak with the effort to restrain my laughter.
These matters are best settled faster with a more eloquent recanter.
Words? Best if you could speak them quickly, before the sleep in my eyes grows thickly.
Ah, war. If you control the team, then coerce your toys to fulfill your dream.
Calling in favors is a sign of lightness, but now I can tell it bears your uncanny likeness.
Who better to prepare a village of the land?
A man unable to stutter a command or the forces which will give demand?
Without a doubt, it will be those forces who prevail.
The arrows which hail us will shatter and break
because God gives us his manna, our cake.
To you, I end with this one bit,
We do this all in His name because God wills it.
