Once upon a time, I rode some mules.
They were fine mules, and I respected them.
They carried me and those that I knew safely from place to place.
I hope they knew that I liked them.
It's hard to tell, however, as I don't speak mule.
In recent months, I rode some more mules.
Different mules.
New mules.
Some of them struck me as odd.
Some of them struck me as unnecessary.
Some of them struck me as retroactive.
What a strange thing for mules to be.
I would question them, but I fear they'd just be annoyed.
Besides, I don't think they'd understand me.
Even if they did, I wouldn't be able to understand their answers.
They are, after all, mules.
And I don't speak mule.
I need to be cautious around the new mules.
Remain wary.
I don't think they want me to talk about them.
They don't want me stirring trouble.
They want my respect, or, at the very least, obedience.
They want me to ride them as I did the old mules.
They told me so.
Wait, I don't speak mule.
Funny.

Penned by my hand on the 16th of Sarapin, in the year 824 AF.