“We were out, Bo and I, when the Prick confronted us. The Prick stood six foot three, and ceaselessly bored those around him with justified pessimism.
October 21st, 1889
It is the night of the acquisition of my father’s estate, Harfeld Manor, which resides in an isolated northern district of Scotland. The home is in utter disrepair, having been relentlessly torn apart by the elements for years on end after my father’s death. I lied in wait, focused on my own collegiate pursuits, neglecting the welfare of the estate much to the dismay of the structure. Now after trying to undo this mistreatment of the estate, day and night the workers hammer away, pounding my eardrums as if they were hammering my skull. I cannot find peace.