XIII

Torundel could smell stone and steel. The first rooms of the B family's manor house had been carved into the mountain back in the days of Fallout. In those days there had been no façade with columns, no electric air-ventilation; just steel doors and the smell of too many humans cramped into too narrow a space.

Now the place stank of stone.

Torundel had been left alone in the great library to write an answer to his own and Uranumsia's shitpost challenge. The count had, before he left him alone, made it clear to him that if he didn't write a response that both in style and content satisfied his advisory scholars, he would have him killed and blended into some sort of meat dish for the upcoming celebration of Isolexit, the end of confinement day.

He had of course protested that he had no skills that was of any use in an enterprise like this, that he was only a historian etc.

Protested, but of course pretending.

He leaned back, took a sip of the blue brandy, and considered, completely at ease, what poetic form he would use.

He choose Sang Hortuscany's 211 word drunkmetre, laughing to himself, imagining Uranumsia thunderstruck at his boldness.

Torundel could smell stone and steel.

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Torundel the Shitposter! part XIII

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