Trubaldsome had decided to write in his journal, for the first time in weeks. He was rather lax when it came to updating his journal, what with how his fingers always ached from holding a quill, getting ink on his hands, and having to squint for so long at the paper. But he was updating it now, hunched over at his desk, in his hand a fine, decorative quill, looping around in cursive handwriting on the paper.
His bewildering hand-writing, filled with excessive amounts of unnecessary loops and squirly bits, served as an unintentional measure to keep prying eyes from reading it.
...and my time here has been most difficulty-fraught indeed. These weak-headed, bumbling fools I brought with me have done little good, merely causing me trouble at every turn, a dangerous trait indeed in this dangerous place, where the King barely holds his throne with scheming "advisors" like that bastard- no, not poetic enoughvillain Kaguro, the peasant-turned-general who watches the King's back like a vicious hawk, if only to put a dagger in it.
In addition, my troubles are compounded by a certain unfortunate legacy from my time back home. Those many, beautiful honey-red sweet, stickyred-hot nights with the beautiful, graceful courtesans of Miring's grand court have had a somewhat nasty effect; an effect by the name of Bromwich Blight. Apparently that itchy rash around the royal jewels was infact the symptom of a terrible disease, or so the rather comely apothecary Drua tells me.
Terribly embarassing, and not to mention the very-real possibility of death! Apparently there is no readily-available cure, but I am having men scour this stinking pigsty and its surrounds for anyone who knows of one. At least I still have Waery. Despite the man's many faults, not least his filthy peasant heritage, he has proven to be as loyal to me as he was to Father. He is the only one I can trust. All the others, everyone else in this court, this city, are out to get me. Why, there are assassins jumping out of wardrobes all over the castle! If this... Hang on. There is someone at the door, so I shall sign off now. Trubaldsome looked up from his lavish, leather-bound journal of the finest paper in irritation. He was seated at his desk in his red-leather armchair, with his royal feet soaking in a richly-scented footbath, the calming smells helping to ease the discomfort from his... Condition. Not quite as quickly as his snuff, but he certainly found it rather relaxing.
"
Waaaery!! Door!" He shouted, then set down his quill and flexed his sore hand, grimacing with annoyance.
"Who dares,
who dares simply walk up and bang on my door unannounced?" He muttered to himself under his breath.
"I should have their filthy hide flayed from their back, red-hot spikes
rammed up their..." He took a soothing, calming pinch of the miraculous white powder in the box before him, and composed himself to see whoever was outside.
Meanwhile Waery, in the next room, was victim of yet another instance of coitus-interruptus, and once again he shoved the whore off his bed and hastily put on his clothes, altough this time he buckled on his swordbelt, complete with his broadsword, shortsword and dagger.
With that reassuring weight clinking at his side, he moved into Trubaldsome's room, grunting, "I'll jes' see who et is, M'lord..." and pulled open the door, laying one hand readily on his sword as he swiftly assessed those outside. "Yes? Is there bein' a problem 'ere, Lord Taric?" He narrowed his eyes, ready to slam the heavy door in the face of anyone attempting to rush in. Waery was an experienced soldier, he could read these men, they were quite plainly up to
something.
Waery opens the door warily, watching Taric's men outside. If anyone tries to barge in, he slams the door in their faces, draws his broadsword, and shouts for his men. ((Sorry if this is ridiculously long...
))