Forgive my late appearance on the scene, fair Lady Caitrin. I was entreated by an artisan of some repute, who has only lately returned from the great holiday markets of fabled Tirana The Good, pockets jingling, to construct a byre agin her humble farmhouse deep in the woods of Frontenac, wherein the faggots may be stacked out of the wet snow, to warm their hearth through the coldest months...and entranced by the merry clinking sound, I sez "I'll do it."

So I must not tarry, but shall drink a deep toast of finest virtual uisge, the only vintage that agrees with my tragically jaded palate, to you and all your fine company, and grab a haunch of sumpin to go, and get my ass out in the snow and start flailin about fer filthy lucre. The sun, were it visible, would be more than somewhat over the yardarm.

But e'er I part, anyone seen da capo what I left in the tavern, cantina, or barn?

No matter. Farewell till mayhaps late this eve.

yr humble hewer of trees William of Woodenhead

William