Turfed unceremoniously from our lands yet again. The piss covered flap over my hovel door begs my return. The muddy scum filled troff outside the old inn looks misplaced and unused without a drunken Frank slap backward and caked in shit, passed out an unaware of his filthy plight wedged into it's crack. The merchant lodge sits idle as the idiots count to potate, and the crate Knute sits on makes his arse weary for a cushion. The wizard wanders, unwashed, and out of his tiny mind. Dorlando mutters intently about the de-creped state of the watermelon patch. El Yanqui, what can be said? The torment of his poor soul, one can bare to watch but it's bloody good viewing so I keep looking. Bruvantas, of my precious Bruvantas.
TO THE VILLAGE LADS! THAT PISS COVERED CLOTH ISN'T GOING TO LIFT ITSELF!
- Frank
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