Dear Madame Arnia,
You are a wicked shrew and it is with great pleasure I am writing you this letter. The city was in a panic, and instead of keeping us safe, you lowered the rates to keep your pockets lined with gold. Well reap what you sow, you ravenous cow. While you were busy counting the money made off our backs, I have taken all the girls with me. No longer will we be your doxies.
I don't know if this letter will even reach you. As we left, I could see hateful green flames spreading across the other side of the city. I can only hope the poxy house is burning down around you as you read this and the last thing you think of is me taking everything from you. May all the dark gods take you and pass you around until you are nothing more than a bloody used rag.