Mm. Yomdaelar.

You see, the Nightingale of Pest - a name I have nobly declined to comment on - has decided that she needs a Heroine. A Beowulf, an Odysseus, a Gilgamesh; a figure of legend who will ensure she is remembered through the ages. Accordingly, she would never say anything to make me look even the slightest bit bad. Intentionally. Her, er. Her prose involves a great deal of lingering on [i]the diamond tears, as hot and salty as Poseidon's kisses[/i] that [i]spring unbidden from amidst eyelashes as long and dark as Ethiopian scimitars[/i] as I contemplate injustice or pine for my lady love or suffer through [i]the temptations of midnight-veiled seductresses who seek to pull me astray from the path of nobility[/i] and so on. If one finds terminally lavender prose comedic then one will have much to laugh at.

We have travelled together for some time. An involuntary arrangement on my end. I managed to give her the slip in Paris, but I have no doubt she is less than a week behind me. Her Paramofuff is almost as enamoured with Apricot as Yomdaelar is with the money my tales of adventure will make her, and she is a horse as swift as the breeze.