Dear Journal,
So, as you know Tacitus Moon is not just the surviving brother of Detective Dayfield and my friend, but he's also now my employer. I'm to clean and tend the estate in Empyreum. AND he found out what happened to Uncle Fofoduti Hohoduti...albeit grim news.
Anyroad, of all the folks I've met in my 26 summers, none's been the more boastful or pompous than he. I mean, I know 'tis fine to take pride in one's work - hells, I brag about that one time (just the one time, mind you) that I was able to clear the nappies o'Sasha's shitestains. But Mr. Moon?
By the gods, Journal, he is such a braggart when it comes to activities of illicit nature! How oft have we been entwined in conversation when suddenly it takes a turn to some noble he's robbed, or a heist he's planning, or a man he's murdered, or a particular stain on the carpet
not being rolanberry sauce - or hells, even the most recent tart he's taken to his bed?
Either he truly trusts me to keep his secrets or he just...doesn't care?
'tis beyond me how he's not rotting in some gaol or worse - dead like his brother or caught by some bountyhunter.
I know he talks a big talk, prattling on like the ringmaster o'the Carnivale. But deep down inside, he's truly soft. He even offered to pay for a chirurgeon's services to tend to my clouded eye.
Mayhap the bigger one puffs their chest up 'tis only to make room for the size of their expansive and loving heart? Moon's not all bad...Right?
...
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