A poem of a war god and his three heads enclosed in a letter from Sergeant Cadmin Mull, a halfling commander to a five-soldier outfit stationed near Fallowfield, to Lord Garace Highbrand, a halfling financier and historian currently touring Harchester.
Greetings, Lord Garace. I hope this letter finds you well. Lord willing, the postmen here are slow as molasses. I suspect they drink on the job, but I'm sure we're in no place to point any fingers. Speaking of fingers and drinking, I've got something strange for you this time. At least it's filled out the laid paper, eh?
You'll find a note enclosed with this letter, the writing in a different hand. This 'poem' was transcribed from the mutterings of an elven madman found in the Rat Fields just north of that old cavalry memorial site. When we found him, he had nearly all of the flesh bitten from his hands. He won't admit it to us, but I suspect he had a hand in it. Haha. The shabby old dreamer must have been out of his mind on mushrooms when it happened, he didn't even notice the wounds until we pointed them out to him.
Because of how often he repeated this charming little sonnet, I had Milo copy it down. I'd like your thoughts on it, the boys are rattled by it and they aren't finding any comfort in my lack of knee-trembling. The elf will be sent to Harnahaddw to be cared for; no one in the surrounding villages has claimed him in a week's time as I write now. I'm sure the elves won't mind another nutter. He should fit right in.Cheers,
Sgt. C. M.
P.S. I was heating up my sealing wax when Milo burst into my tent. Ulry was bringing everyone their suppers and the damned elf bit the living daylights out of the poor boy. He took two fingers off then ran. I'm having posters made in the morning. Hopefully someone will catch this bedlamite before he kills somebody. He better hope someone catches him before I do.
The Hand, the Rat, the Tommy-Drum, the closest of companions,
Their legacy flown high to see by black and bloody fanions.
A tricky old triumvirate, they spend their days conspiring,
Til Tommy drums, the battle comes, and Hand commands the firing.
The Rat returns to Hand in burns and Tommy rowdy-dowing,
His part, his thrill, he eats his fill of bodies bent and bowing.