The body of a wayward child has been dragged from the Ouvrier into the Marchand overnight, a notice pinned to its chest.
I am sure you would have lived a full life of thieving, nagging, leeching, and murdering.
But you were fed to my hungry blade by the couldn't-care-less Braillant.
I do not weep for you, stupid, poor child that you are. Perhaps your parents do, poor and stupid that they are.
My blade is hungry still, Ouvrier animals, I look forward to the fun we'll have together.
Yours Truly,
The Shepherd
