Dear Champion,
I'm worried about you. When you asked me to find you a head of lettuce, a soul gem and a skein of yarn I didn't think much of it. After all, it's not really a maid's place to question the eating habits or art projects of the man who saved us all from a daedric invasion. But that being said, when you returned smelling of burnt fur, twirling a morbid looking walking stick and cackling like a mad man... well, I must admit you frightened me.
I would have written it off as just another peculiar occurrence, seeing as there have been no shortage of them since I came to live with you. But then you and your walking stick disappeared again and no one saw hide nor hair of you for months. Normally when you go off on one of your adventures I at least get some news from passing Legionnaires or read about it in the Black Horse Courier. But this time nothing.
Then the next thing I know I'm waking up in the middle of the night to the most horrid racket only to find you in the midst of the kitchen with a chicken under one arm, covered in flour and dancing a jig around a wheel of cheese while four foul smelling scamps played all our pots and pans like drums. How you didn't wake the neighbors I'll never know.
It wouldn't be so bad really, I suppose owning a pet or two. But why does it have to be scamps? All they do is chew on the chairs and hiss at me while I'm trying to dust. I'm reasonably sure one of them ate my broom too. I keep finding regurgitated straw on the carpet.
And if that weren't enough, that chicken you've also adopted keeps trying to roost in the cabinets. It worries me, sometimes I swear it's scheming something… always staring at me as if I'm planning to cook it at any moment. Pretty paranoid for a bird if you ask me. And I wish you'd stop calling it Glarthir. That poor sod didn't disappear all that long ago you know, and the guard still aren't sure if he's even still alive. It feels disrespectful to name such an irritating bird after him.
-Deeply concerned for you
Eyja.