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For all the times you snuck up from beneath this bridge and scared the wits right out of me, you deserved every bit of that and more you miserable, smelly, bullyrag! I brought you a sandwich, but you refused to break bread with me. I offered you a nip of ale, but you threw it back in my face. I brought you a cake of soap, yet you were insulted to the core. You live right by a river, would it destroy your sensibilities to take a dip and scrub off a layer or two of the detritus that has collected upon your person? I even offered to make it a soothing soak by heating up the water with a blast of the immolation.

Well, we know what the answer was don’t we? That’s right, you chose to throw stones. Now I face a terrible dilemma. You have been vanquished in combat, but I quake with fear and horror at the idea of rifling through that kilt to see what goodies I might claim as my own. Windy, perhaps you could prod him with a few charges and shake a coin or two loose?

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All has become clear. No wonder you are filled with malice and fervor. Look at the way you live. It’s a stye in here! And this ale, it’s the gut rot of the realm! No wonder the flatulence is so powerful within you.

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Oh, so you were only pretending earlier? You dare to sneak upon me while my back is turned? Well, a flaming sword under the kilt isn’t the stuff of dreams my friend!

PeteWi 2, Troll 0

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

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