Blume’s Second Pamphlet

A *Very* Refined Guide to Pistols, Petticoats, and Power

By Blaume Hoffnung, Arbiter of Taste and Elegance

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On Fashion: Petticoats, Frock Coats, and the Decline of Purple

Speaking of taste, my dearest readers, it pains me to see that some finer folks still cling to purple—a shade once noble, now sullied by the likes of the unsavoury. Need I remind you that purple is *out*? Unless, of course, you are trying to announce to the world that you harbour an irrational hatred for all that is good—those who wear purple might as well slap a sign on their back that reads "tasteless bygone!"

Leather frock coats, however, are the talk of the town. Strong, resilient, and decidedly elegant—everything a modern gentle person's should be. Nothing says "Don't trifle with me" quite like leather tailored to perfection. And let's not forget, it pairs divinely with a silver-buckled pistol belt. A statement of both grace and deadliness.

On Power: Of Taxes and Responsibility

I hear whispers in the streets, and really, it is hard not to, given how loudly common folk tend to grumble. The Graf's taxation policies, especially those of Middenheim, have been questioned. To these doubters, I say: the rich stay rich for a reason, my dears. Wealth must be handled delicately, like a priceless silk gown or a well-balanced firearm. The taxes imposed are simply a fair distribution of wealth and power, and who better to guide society than the refined? -Those with money know how to keep it!

Now, there are some that should be paying more, however. Wizards, for instance. Why should they not be taxed when they can simply conjure coin from the ether? Let them magic up a tax payment And dwarves! Have they not mined their vast fortunes from the earth and kept it to themselves, hidden in their dark little holes? As for the priests, aren't they supposed to lead humble lives? They preach of piety but hoard their wealth. Let them set an example for once and carry the burden of taxes instead of hiding behind their altars. Money corrupts, they say—so let them be free of such a burden!

It has come to my attention that the Graf is ill—gravely so. Some say that it is the same ailment that claimed his dear wife. Could this be the work of darker forces, creeping its tendrils into Middenheim? Are foul creatures plotting to seize power through his unfortunate demise? The baby heir is a delightful but sickly cherub, to be sure, but one wonders whether he can steer a city. On the other hand, the Graf's 'other' son a war hero of fine standing, seems a capable choice. Only time will tell, and may the gods aid his quick recovery before brother turn against brother.

Social Gossip and Public Observations

The Coopers’ shop continues to be the disaster it has always been—awful service, dreadful staff, and I’ve heard rumours, mind you, that it’s a front for some unsavoury cult and may even be training lizards for their disreputable scheme. Can I confirm this? No. But would I bet on it? Absolutely. If you value your soul, avoid the Coopers!

Meanwhile, Guido, a former priest now a witch hunter, has made quite a name for himself. If you find yourself in need of ridding your house of witches, demons, or anyone who seems unpleasant, Guido is your man. As he says, "Got sick from a witch? Guido will fix that itch quick" (It could use refinement, but it has charm).

(Competitions are now open for a jingle - please send your submissions to the Templars arms. One shilling to the winner!)

Speaking of unspeakable disasters, the Blackpool illuminations this year? Dreadful. I would rather have stared at a rain-soaked puddle. Absolutely no flair, no imagination. Utterly uninspired. I pity anyone who wasted their time.

On Poetry and Commoners

At a recent cultural event—where one might hope to hear the finest poetry recited with proper decorum—I was, instead, subjected to the grating sound of the masses singing "Cauliflowers Fluffy" of all things. *Ghastly*. The poetry, I’m sure, was exquisite, though I couldn't hear a word over the rabble. It’s a shame that true art must suffer such indignities.

Finally, for those looking for a little romance, my dear Aunt Crabapple has passed down a love potion recipe of potency that will get you your desired (results). Use with care:

- A pinch of Childbless

- Three raspberries

- Two teaspoons of Tarrabeth

Brew it into a tea, and serve to the object of your affection. Results *may* vary, but if you have no game, you cannot lose regardless.

Until next time, my dears, may your petticoats stay crisp, your pistols well-oiled, and your rivals properly taxed.

*Blaume Hoffnung, Arbiter of Taste and Elegance*