Dear Critic,
.
Our young men have become even cornier, purchasing flowers for another while exchanging smiles and kisses with another.
The poor lasses who fall for knights are the ones I fear for. Sir Conan Jones appear to be enjoying his youth quite exceptionally.
I would not trust my heart with him if given the opportunity.
Our widow is with child!
How shocking for a lady we'd assume would become a nun now decides to birth for the lord.
Bless Critic Arley.
.
Yours inciting,
Muckraker.
*
* *
*
Noon.
Marketplace.
Critic Arley, Critic-Ishire.
***************
The bustling marketplace was alive with the sounds and scents of the city: the calls of merchants hawking their wares, the laughter of children darting through the crowd, and the rich, enticing aroma of freshly baked bread mingling with the sharp tang of spices.
