My comrades-in-arms have decided to take over the tower. We've hired dozens of carpenters (without even getting an estimate from the contractor—foolish!) and begun furnishing a new floor. I'm to be given a section of the basement as a sort of apprentice's lab. I appreciate the gesture, but I can't help lamenting the move for a different reason. This "Moon Tower" should instead be known as the "Blue Moon Tower," since it's bound to be a blue moon before we get any ladies in the damned place, and that means blue... well, other things.
Talk about your bachelor pads! The spiders are the size of my fist. We'll be burning sage for a month before we make a dent in the musty smell (especially in my basement) and I don't know how we'll ever get the bloodstains out of the floor. Now I understand why that evil wizard spent so much on rugs. I wonder if this is his revenge? That's the worst part about death-curses. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
