- See also: Snoufleur
Picked up someone new. Called himself Marchand and offered three Orlee royals to travel alongside to Celestine. Betting both knees he saw the bows and thought we'd be protection. Didn't think we might turn the weapons on him ourselves. Maker's grapes, by the time we hit Lydes, I wanted to. Little shit couldn't stop bragging about how he was going to be a tutor for some high lord's son. Everything out of his mouth was "Milord Silk-Knickers this" and "Milord Silk-Knickers that."
Showed us a little painting of Milord Silk-Knickers and his lady. Milord I wanted to punch, but the rump on milady—I'd like to tutor that.
And then going through the Dales, we see one of those long-nosed pigs with the stump legs. It's just crossing the highway, dragging its stupid belly along the ground, as they do. Bless the Maker and all, but He was deep in His holy golden cups the day He made that thing.
Anyway, I turn to Lockey, and I say, "Hey, it's one of them snufflers."
Marchand starts in with his giggle. Lockey and me, we look at him.
"Snuffler!" he says, like he just caught me naked with his lady mother. "Non—tu dois dire 'snoufleur.'" Because "snuffler" just isn't fancy enough for Orlee. So I say it like he does: snooooou-fleeeeur. Can't keep a straight face. Marchand goes red like a virgin with skirts blown up. And good old Lockey, he just shoots the thing with an arrow while it's snuffling its way across the road.
"Now it's dead, and we call it dead," he says. That was that.
—From the hunting log of Kerr of West Hill, dated 17 Solace