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Ah, my most glittering liege of lamentation and dirty laundry,
What joy it brings to see the parchment parade continue! Such theatricality,
such winded waltzing down the cobblestone corridors of callout culture. I
nearly dropped my goblet from the sheer drama of it all (and not even the good
blood, mind you... just beetroot and boredom).
Your eloquence, dearest monarch of melodrama, froths and flutters like a moth
trapped in a velvet glove; eager to impress, but tragically unsure of its exit
strategy.
Let's be honest, your post has all the pomp of a royal decree and all the
subtlety of a bat in a ballroom. It reads like a thesaurus was left alone with
a diary and decided to start a theater troupe. There's certainly flair, I'll
give you that, but somewhere between the metaphors and melodrama, one wonders
if the real message simply lost its fangs.
And really, must we? The realm is tired. Tired of the eternal night being
dimmed not by moonclouds but by endless, fanged theatrics. One might hope that
a King of the Vampires would rise above the melodrama, not double-fist goblets
of it while shouting from the parapets.
But thank you, noble sovereign of the sigh-soaked scroll, for this noble
contribution to the ancient vampire tradition of petty, performative shade.
Ever fluttering on the edge of exasperation,
Trollthroat the Prince of Whinepires
Supreme Court Jester of the Unwashed Sock Drawer