Oct 23 Just got out of prison and finally received my possess- ions back. I arrived back in Halas on the 9th and sold the limericks to a Barbarian who paid a hefty amount of silver for the work. As I was walking down the street a Blacksmith said, "I'll have to charge my usual fee of 12 copper." His patron
replied, "If I pay you that much I'll be a pauper." I had no idea if the rhyme was intentional or not but un- controllable rage swept over me. Slowly, ever so slowly, I turned, grabbed the patron by the throat and squeezed. It took six guards to free him. One guard gave me a strong warning and said, "You must now leave our
city". Which was fine but another guard said right afterward, "Do this again and face the committee." Before I could realize it, my hands were wrapped around the guard's throat. Jail wasn't that bad save the rats, bats, mildew, and stench. Unusually, the jail served rat sandwiches everyday. At least no one has
said a rhyme to me since. The end to the horror seems far from sight. Rhyming winter nightmares have sadly impaled me. Writhing with nightly havoc, sanity eludes me.