Greetings, Your Majesty! This missive was penned by your loyal subject, Bite of house Bitingham.
Before I get down to the meat of the issue, I'd like to congratulate you on the safe delivery of your new heir! May they be hale and hearty throughout their life and many blessings upon house Morningstar.
Ahem, now onto the brass tacks. As you may or may not know, the Bitingham estate is situated quite a ways away from the city, rather isolated due to being established on a tract of quicksand. I have no servants and no relatives living with me.
But, the night I am writing this letter, I was perusing the stock of my wine cellar, and I heard something peculiar.
A scratching sound, coming from underneath the stone floor.
There have been several Bitingham manors built on this property, all on the same place. When the first one sank, the matriarch who built it refused to leave, her home becoming her tomb. And thus began a family tradition, each heir building atop the old and sinking with the sands of time.
The last one to do so was my father, and I remember vividly his cowardly eyes locking onto my own, his pallid face pressed against the attic window as he scratched at the glass in vain.
All this to say, I am scared pantsless and I have retreated to the stables. Can you go check out the noise for me, pretty please?
...... Are you asking me to see if the ghost of your father, that you apparently murdered, is there to take his revenge?
I'm on bed rest bud, no can do. And Adams not doing it either.
But I do know an imp business that may be interested.
