A crumpled, stained, and generally worn piece of paper hangs loosely from the door of one fine-fingered, silver-tongued, wit-wealthy bard. The hand is elegant, though the state of the paper somewhat marrs the beauty of the script. It reads;
"To you, oh smelly, beastly, and palpably rude taxidermist of all save manticores, I have returned the half measure of purple pill which I did not-" There, marking the paper, are the dried remnants of foul-smelling bile. "-not consume to my detriment, and I trust that my error in judgement shall be repaid in full following a performance of your choice in both content and length, at your pleasure. Pray, do not call on me at least until this damnable fever breaks.
Yours, in alchemical altruistic antics,
Fiers"
"To you, motherly woman in both cross countenance, and unceasing nagging, and legendarily loose locks, I offer my profoundest condolences. The mess that has inexplicably appeared directly outside of your stocks can only be explained by a sudden and regrettable emergence of a fierce illness which judging by the harshness of your tone, you bear no interest in remedying. There is however, a mop around here somewhere. That said, you may find that your supplies have been pilfered, however the intended reciepient of said pilfered potents will perhaps be unexpected, should said administration be of a false and ignorant nature. I trust that should any inbibers of unfortunately ill-informed cocktails come to your door, you will be more merciful with their plight.
Yours very own prentice physician, in at least the arts of male prowess,
Fiers.
P.S. Don't drink any of Ricardo's beer. The man's notoriously protective of his drink, as a lump on my head can attest. And also, you really don't want what's in his beer."
