My Lord,
I thought perhaps you were coming. Perhaps you still are. You may be waylaid. You may, I can foresee, be harried with more pressing concerns. Or you might have already written off the loss. I have stalled as long as I can, however, and the time is up.
I do not know what they will do to me, but I have found no escape and no help. If a man may be judged by his enemies, you have chosen yours well. These abominations make your case better than you or your sophists ever have.
Your humble servant,
Lars
Tale Told 