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November 9, 1677

A four-legged tipple

Let it not be said that I am not a charitable man, nor am I want to look askance when charity is given unto me. The Good Lord has provided me with the little one, whose food and lodging I take great advantage of while also providing me with a Great Project in the form of the ugly one.

Despite all his dark magicks, Patrick, as the ugly one is called can conjure no witchcraft when it comes to women. Despite being able to ensorcerele the little one, I have seem him make a great fool of himself around the fairer sex, flapping his arms like a bird and gasping at them in a most ungentlemanly fashion. To escape his attentions they haven even taken to depositing their dinner upon his head, which is amusing to many a bystander excepting those in his company.

Patrick sought me out the other day in an obvious attempt to escape the confines of the mansion. The little one has taken to his study as of late to count his coppers, which has slowed down the rate of my pilfering to unacceptable levels. Instead, I have found myself whiling away my days by getting copiously drunk in the company of the little one’s horse, Bucephalas, who holds his ale admirably well. It amuses me greatly to watch the little one attempt to mount his horse, only to have it crumple beneath him to the accompaniment of his screams and curses.

Patrick danced around the issue for a bit but it soon became apparent that he would like to frequent one of the many brothels that the little one and I knew of in the city. I felt sorry for the man, as it was likely that any prostitute worth her salt would have his throat slit and his purse cut within moments of any business transaction being completed. Being a good Christian, I offered to ferry him to his destination as it had been a few days since my last visit. Patrick, in his gratitude, offered to take me to his Physick as he unnecessarily cautioned me to the ramifications of consorting with whores.  I agreed, in part because my tooth hurt, and also because I wanted to see what another magician looked like.

It turned out that other magicians are just as strange as Patrick, though perhaps not as threadbare or pedantic. Instead of looking at my tooth, the Physick insisted upon measuring my head and asking me questions about my lineage. Most insultingly, he inquired as to whether my family had ever had relations with the remnants of the Armada. Fit to be tied, I stormed out of the office only to come upon Patrick, who once again had managed to have a meal tossed at his person. I grabbed him by the shoulder and resolutely pushed him through the door of the Crimson Unicorn where perhaps a little consorting might better his mood.

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