Heyyyyy Bartholemew,

‘Tis MacBain, son of MacBain. I assume you have heard that I am the new Liege Lord of the Northern Lands, since my father shockingly and unsuspiciously took his own life in November by shooting himself in the back of the head three times with a crossbow.

I understand that this is not the letter you want to receive as we head into the Yule tide, but we would really appreciate it if you could head down to the barracks on Thursday to prepare for, and engage in, a battle with the MacGruber Clan. I know that is Christmas day and, probably, the last thing you want to do on the holiday… especially since you and, what remains of, your once large family were hit by a storm of unpleasantness this past plague season (rest in peace, Angus, Asher, Seamus, Marshall, Rosaline, Jacob, Mary, Little Jacob, Little Mary, and Stewart).

Alas, I could really use all hands on deck for this, as we try to wrap up both the reign of the pesky MacGruber and the final fiscal quarter of the year.

The MacGruber Clan, Lords of the Valley of Non-Violence, have been acting suspiciously peaceful: they are unwilling to acknowledge or indulge any of our attempts to goad them into a conflict, which has me thinking that their attack is coming any day now. I understand that they were some of our most treasured and important allies under my father’s rule. He (who again, just so happened to kill himself with my crossbow) often even praised them for their commitment to diplomacy, their wisdom, their temperance, and their signature flower arrangements they send to everyone in the Northernlands on their birthday.

But, unlike my father (whom I did not kill) before me, I see through their facade: I will not be fooled by their white flags, their trade agreements, or their offerings of their slim-thick daughters to my eldest son. We have to beat them to the punch and it has to be on Thursday.

What better day to wipe an entire bloodline off the face of the earth than on Christmas? Not only would they never expect an ambush on one of the holiest days of the year (especially when they are so accustomed to spending that day breaking bread with us inside our castle walls as a sign of good faith) but it is also what Jesus would have wanted, probably.

And you do not want to disappoint Jesus, do you, Bartholemew? Especially not on his birthday. What kind of person would go against the wishes of our Lord and savior on his own birthday? A member of the MacGruber clan, probably.

So tarry not on the superficial or material aspects of this holy day.
Worry not about filling your surviving children’s stockings with trinkets. Cancel your plans to cut down your tree. And certainly forget about what problems your late wife (who passed in the same tragic fashion as my father) had with this plan when I would propose it annually in years past. She had a mouth, that one.

There is a reason God took her from us, Bartholomew. It is because she did not understand the true meaning of Christmas. She lived her life, failing to realize that the real gift that eeps on giving, is flaying your liege lord’s enemies. No matter how many of them are children. You, of course, do not have to come. In much the same way the sorry remnants of your family do not have to live to see the new year. The choice is yours and thank you in advance.

Happy Holidays,

MacBain, Son of MacBain, Liege Lord of the Northern Lands and soon to be Lord of the Valley of Non-Violence.