A missive came the other day from the human realm. One of those documents they call a contract. I read it, signed it, sent it on its way. As soon as it returns, signed by ‘M’, I will have news.
I sometimes feel the mysterious ‘M’ would keep me within these walls scribbling away at all hours of the day and night if she had her way. I’ve no doubt mistakenly led you to believe I am a prisoner within this place where the torture implements are made of feathers so black they gleam purple and blue along the edges, but I entered here of free will. The ink is my blood, the words intricate mechanisms to hold fast the padlocks. Only writing spreads the words, at once strengthening them but sending them on their way, spreading them around, wearing down the wards that keep me here. It’s a good thing there’s a dungeon master for I might forget to eat and drink if he did not attend me.
The moon is full and I wait for the carrier pigeon to return. It will bring my contract, and the ravens will dine — this makes all of us happy.