My dear Narrator.
I do not know when you shall recieve this letter. I hope that it finds you in good health, and sans that God-awful facial hair you were sporting upon our last meeting. Because I care not for your protestations of its masculine ruggedness, Narrator, it is an eyesore, and it pricks upon my every positive aspect. Not to mention, my chin.
Rose is of choleric temper. She fares badly without her brother to placate her. She fears for him. As I fear for you. You and your dignity, you bearded abomination.
The Masters are moving. The stairway lies beyond the Styx. Be wary.
Regards,
Chorus
Chorus.
Guild and I have found the Turner. But we are pursued. We flee to Solomon's belly. Meet us as twilight falls on Xerxes.
The beard remains.
Narrator
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