[Scrawled in desperation SEND HELP is written at the top of the post.]

If anyone is reading this...

I am Fenh, the Trouserless. The CIJ has refused me the title, claiming I do not meet rank requirements.
And so, I find myself without a title, without rank and without trousers.

But that is not the worst of it. No. Dear readers, I must bring attention to a far greater plight of mine. A condition that afflicts me but may infact, afflict the very fabric of our news reality.

I am a being held captive to write poetry.

I cannot seem to write in a sentence long enough to maintain coherence without alerting them.

I simply ca-

Even now, as I attempt to explain my myself, a burly mhun approaches me in the newsroom. His steps are heavy with menace, his eyes burn with contempt, his fists move with unshakable resolve of a mhun who has had enough.

He has come to shake me down for using public ink.

But I am a humble pauper, trouserless and gold-less and in essence without pockets.

But poetry soothes him. It pacifies him. It slows his advance. Perhaps he is a romantic at heart? Perhaps a secret admirer of when I string words together to sound the same at the end of a line.

But what life is this? am I condemned to write, to exist to please their whims?

I have pleaded to higher powers to pay for his fee. To grant me public freedom. But they do not reply. My debts remain.

And now- he is coming. He is Here.

I need to hide.


Penned by my hand on the 2nd of Ero, in the year 968 AF.