Regarding My Insouciant Machinations

Greetings, dearest readers. As has become the custom for this blog, it is I, Parciloquy the Peculiar, Pleonast of Bleak-on-Vomir, Thaumaturge of the Aurantian Concordat, CEO of Interdimensional Business Machines, Inc., along with far too many other titles from a variety of different worlds to list here.

I am writing this warm Oregon day in response to a query I received through electronic mail querulously expressing disbelief in my claims that, though I wear the mild-mannered body of Happy Valley, Oregon resident Lancelot Squib1, I am in fact Parciloquy the Peculiar of the aforementioned titles (along with many others left unmentioned), a wizard of the 69th Aeon of the Inevitable Realm of Atlass.

I have written this disquisition in response to the most salient arguments found within the electronic mail. Whilst I am an adventuring wizard and have often to resort to roguery to further my aims, I am at heart of a genteel nature, so I shall not disclose the identity of my captious detractor. However, I will mention that those around her typically refer her as “your majesty.”

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Earth, Atlass, and the Magic Portals of the Wizard’s Tower

To: The Peoples of Earth
From: Parciloquy the Peculiar, Pleonast of Bleak-on-Vomir, Thaumaturge of the Aurantian Concordat, and author of "Parciloquy's Suffering Silence: an Arcanist's Guide to Siopic Excruciation"

Welcome, dear reader. Once again it is I, Parciloquy the Peculiar and the Purple, judging by the fashion choices made this day by my faithful manservant Lancelot Squib, whose fingers even now tap away upon this laptop. Such a delightful device, much better than the tuning rods and crystals of which I am more accustomed to in my own devices.

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My Magical Artifact, the Hand of Lothar, is Missing

To: Arturo the Clock-Maker, Laddys Fermille, Malicule the Meticulous, Baldar the Vargouile Slayer, and all signatories of the Aurantian Concordat
From: Parciloquy the Peculiar, Pleonast of Bleak-on-Vomir and Thaumaturge Most Excellent

My dearest friends and colleagues, balm to my copper-plated heart, it is with such joy and pleasance that I write to you today regarding a magical artifact well beloved to me. I but bask in the glory that is your attention, which shines like the golden second sun of Arcturias floating betwixt the twin peaks of the Alablavendar Mountains.

You, who shine like the blood moon at the height of its perihelion on the vampire world of Sangria Muerte, I fear I must relate to you, in the feebleness that is my lot when compared to the glory of my fellow wizardly colleagues such as yourself, that I have recent cause for a great deal of woe and distress.

No doubt you, whose intellect and wisdom shine brighter than all the stars in the Blue Hydra constellation, have by now deduced my dissimulation. Having written the words of the Trichromatic Obeisance, I feel I may dispense with the platitudes and write more plainly. Or, as the planar aborigines of this version of Earth say: “Let’s cut the shit”.

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