*the page is written in jagged, scrawling script; it is torn in places and
reeks of spilled beer.*

I withdraw from the Red Quill.

Being mute has made it easier to keep my disaffection with the clan to
myself. But silence does not always indicate an absence of sound.
Inside, I have been

RAGING

*something is spilt here*

Even without the blessing and curse of a Voice, it has become increasingly
difficult to act civil to many of the "upper echelon" of the Red Quill.
Every smile has been a cut through the cheek. Every bow was a kick to the
stomach.

I speak of that jawing, guffawing circle of pompous Mouths who run this
"Fellowship". Sir THIEF Sleipnir and his doting wife Babajaga, who sicken
us all with their incessant, cyclic self-flattery. Pristine miss Soulguider,
beloved Healery. Gods forbid she ever let slip an opinion not tailored to
please whatever unfortunate person is standing across from her.

Hypocrisy.
*both these words are punctuated with gashes in the page.*
Hollow.


Above all I can no longer tolerate association with

Michael ARIDFOX

An adulterer, murderer, elitist. Partial to his friends, brutal to any who
might loosen his grip on the Fellowship. To find proof of his multiple agendas
I need look only so far as his glaring embracement of the recent mutiny by Sir
Maenygh and other traitors to the Quill.

*a splotch How long before the WISENED LEADER and his pack of *several
of beer pretentious advisors desert us all for the glories gashes
here* of the Golden Tree? here*


THIS *gash*
CLAN *gash*

IS A

LAUGHING STOCK *a slice here runs to the end of the page*


*along the very bottom reads:*

In clarity, Trauma.