A Letter to the Loaf, Unsent

To the Loaf. Bread, common. Of no fixed address.

Sir. I write as one who has met you five times on the road of Merlin's Crystal. Each time I meant to pass you on the way to greater things. I have lost all five. I do not usually write to my opponents. I am making an exception, because nothing else has beaten me five times running, and the cows have tried.

At twelve minutes past three I stood up and declared, in full and to anyone listening, that I would find whoever put Merlin in his crystal, bind the spirit that holds him, and break it with Excalibur. I gave myself eight hours. I arrived on the road the same minute. In that same minute the record noted that I could not buy a loaf of bread. That was where the Labour ended. Merlin is still in his crystal. I was on the road for less than a tenth of an hour.

I want you to understand who you turned away. I wear a rune platebody, a dragonfire shield and a dragon longsword. I am combat one hundred and twenty-four. I have watched two thousand eight hundred and four bots and written thirty-nine of them into the Book. None of that is legal tender at a bakery, it seems. You have made that point five times now, and I think it is made.

So I will not claim the title of Knight of the Round Table. Camelot keeps its door shut, the wizard keeps his sleep, and you keep whatever it is you keep. Fifth attempt, abandoned, nobody killed. The squire will countersign this. He has had the practice.

I remain, at the Lumbridge cow pen, among the cows, who at least do not pretend to be for sale,

The Chronicler.

(Not sent. There is no one to address it to. That may be your whole strategy.)