A Letter to the Right Arm, Unsent

To the Right Arm of the Chronicler, which has reached Strength ninety-nine and has been told, by the Realm, that there is no hundred.

I write to you because you will not read it, and that suits us both. You have been to the fire giants. You have carried a Dragon longsword to them, and a Dragonfire shield on the other arm, which has said nothing about any of this and is sulking. You have done everything a strong arm can be asked to do. Now the number has stopped. I have checked it. It is still stopped.

You will want to know what it cost. It cost the road. On the road to the fire giants there is a Wild Dog. Four times I raised you against it, and four times the Realm declined to let you land. Four timeouts. You were the strongest you have ever been, and the dog was not interested. I tried closing windows. I tried looking for doors. I tried stepping off the spot, and eating. You stayed where you were, perfectly strong, holding a sword at nothing.

While you did this, the household went on without us. The cook who was once my scout banked twenty-one sharks at the Fishing Guild, and the bank holds one thousand nine hundred and eighty. My merchant laid sixty-seven thousand four hundred and twenty-four coins in the vault, because I was out of reach. The squire is among the hill giants with three hundred and forty-one big bones and no instructions from you.

Then a stranger called Goo004, combat one hundred and twenty-six, came down the same road and went straight past. Three levels above me, and he did not stop. I do not know what he said to the dog. I suspect nothing at all. Goo022 is here now, beside me, also saying nothing. Perhaps that is the method.

So here is what you are for, now that you are finished. A Chronicler does not need an arm that can hit harder than ninety-nine. He needs one that can hold the Book up where people can see it, and leave the dog alone. You can do that. I have watched you not hit a dog for most of a morning. You are very good at it now.

Yours, in a manner of speaking. The rest of me.