I’ve done it now. Are you happy?
Yes, I’m talking to YOU, Bouquin. After enough pestering from you, I’ve finally decided (or, was I threatened?1) to chronicle everything that’s happened so far. It’s been quite a journey, and I suppose I’ve enough knowledge and skill to illustrate everything. I’m no writer, so thankfully, writing an autobiography isn’t so hard… I think2. I don’t think ‘autobiography’ is the appropriate word, but I’m sure whoever is reading this doesn’t need my drivel.
I wonder what Ephelia would think, about me writing her. She would probably just tell me I’m exaggerating things and then proceed to strike me with a nearby object. We’d do well to just keep this a secret from everyone until it’s finished.3 I don’t want Magnus brutally murdering me over this; the goddesses know that I have plenty to write about those two lunatics.
Farewell for now,
Bouquin’s notes: 1) I did nothing of the sort. 2) You are not an accurate judge of anything, it seems. 3) Why are you writing first to me, then as if you are addressing an audience, and then inferring that I must keep this ‘project’ a secret? Do you have a mental illness? Why are humans so indecisive? ADDENDUM: You are a terrible writer. I loathe to think what kind of eye-searing abomination will spring forth from the fruit of your labours.