Oh, I’m Going to Get Killed Any Minute Now (Part 6)
As ever, readers who are new to the diary, please scroll down a bit to where you see the Thppgrg tag. Click on it. Yeah, that’s right. Otherwise, if you missed part five, you can just click here. (Art by Chris McFann.)
Who am I kidding?
Of course I read Shaendralya’s note to Sigvald. I’m evil.
Here it is, in its entirety.
NOTE: it appears that she may speak some strange variant of Elven or of Common (perhaps the heretofore unknown “Half-Elven” language?) that I am unfortunately not entirely familiar with—although it plainly uses the near-universal rune-alphabetic script. Her spellings have been kept intact:
“u suk … i totes h8 u!1 4rl
“:,,-((( txt mee
“<3 shae-shae <<33”
I take this as a low point in their relationship.
Although technically, the lowest point might have been when he was killed by dwarves and then his girlfriend, albeit mistakenly, climbed into bed with me.
In a fit of pique, I have left the following note in response:
“Dearest Shae-Shae, my autumn flower,
“Perchance, forgive me—I am so very sorry that I have been kept from you by the ill-winds of chance and such dire providence as strikes our close-knit bonds of mutual affection. Moreover, I swell with both most deepest regret and the greatest of shirt-rending, chest-beating agony that you should so callously think of me that I “suk.”
“My heart aches for you, most completely and absolutely . . . yet, I yearn for the day when we shall once again find one another—and bind one another—in the passionate, turgid, and otherwise exceptionally erotic embrace for which, as previously noted, I so desperately yearn. At such time, I shall give you most excellent loving, several times.
“Yet I digress. Our current romantic situation, my adored one, is complicated by engines of fate and contusions of circumstance beyond my own ken, set in motion by powers scarce comprehensible to my feeble and fervid mind; suffice to say, I cannot even begin to detail the magnitude of decades-long, wheels-within-wheels, worlds-within-worlds plots and machinations that thwart us, and that yet strip me—even as I assail against them—of the companionship I seek in you—and in your fantastic & attractive bosoms. Which I am very attracted to.
“I beg of thee: take heart, and think of me fondly in my prolonged, poorly explained absence. My goblin man-servant, the foul & stupid—yet overly-honest and exceptionally illiterate—creature called Thppgrg, has informed me that you found him in the course of dutifully guarding over my empty bedchamber whilst I was away, and that at your arrival, some confusion quite naturally arose.
“Please, render unto him whatever missives you might have for me, your beloved Sigvald, and feel free to take counsel with him. Most importantly, please tell him all of our most private and embarrassing secrets.
“He hath sworn a binding goblin-oath never to share any secrets I have ever told him, although suffice to say that he knows all of mine already. Foolish creature that he is, he earnestly (and completely!) believes that his entire head will catch on fire and he will die of pooping himself to death if he ever so much as breathes a word of what I have told him—and the same goes for you. Also, he thinks that his legs will turn into snakes and bite him on the face. So you can really trust him, is what I’m saying.
“And, as noted before, he is very much, quite illiterate.
“In fact, he is terrified of paper. Never touches the stuff. Actually, he’s allergic to it. And thinks that it is so thin that it will cut him in half. Because he is so stupid.
“Please also note that he always calls me ‘Sir,’ which as you know is very important to me. He thinks that only I am strong enough to touch paper, as well. Yes, that’s it.
“ALSO: if you happen to know any attractive dwarven women, recently single, from an open-minded yet freakishly wealthy family and looking to casually date a strategically important goblin gentleman such as Thppgrg and to buy him nice things, please introduce them.
“—Your loving Sigvald the Bugbear”
It is currently pinned to the inside of the closet with the same dagger Shaendralya used, tied with a festive bow made of rat intestines. We’ll see how this one works out.
Am reasonably certain that my handwriting matches Sigvald’s pretty well—my only sample of his penmanship comes from where he carved his name (presumably in the possessive form, although lacking an apostrophe to denote such ownership) in all capital letters and the words “KEP OUNT” on the inside of his door.
I believe it might have been intended for the outside of his door, or quite possibly for the door of his closet, but my background in bugbear psychology is limited, at best.
ALSO: upon preparing spells for the day, primarily for purposes of shooting that stupid racist ghost in the face if he shows up again, have discovered that Sigvald’s bedspread is now entirely repaired.
Arcane magic is the worst.