To My Dear Putz of a Brother-in-Law,
My hand's shaking so bad, my quill's about to take flight, so hope you can read this! The old Kreutzman hag's bit the dust at last! I know, only a real blackguard enjoys another's funeral, but that wench was as grouchy a miser as they come. No one liked her, not even a little. So why'm I writing about her? Because I happen know the old wench left behind a sizeable stash of gold, her being so damn stingy all her rotten life and not having any weans to leave anything to. So I'm going to her cellar this evening to look around, see what I can find. You take your lass (my sister, treat her right, you bastard) and head to Stacheier soon as you can. We'll all buy ourselves a manor and drink, eat and shite to excess till the end of our merry days!
P.S. Folk gossip about some flying vermin prowling the wench's hut, but that's village hag prattle, not anything any self-respecting bloke should believe.