Addressed to the aging and portly proprietor of the Asdefk Inn, of Darromar (Kingdom of Tethyr)
From the Maritime Desk of the Renowned Bard Willow, Rover of the Marches, etc.
Somewhere (I presume) South of Alaron
Inexpertly lit passenger cabin of The Mermaid Sword
24th of Mirtul
Killian,
This damp and cheaply procured parchment upon which I now scribble may very well be my last recorded testament on this cruel and unfettered world known as Toril. You’ll pardon the general dips at the end of an occasional line, of course—the swells of this dastardly springtime sea seem tussled by the hands of the salt-laden bitch-queen herself. All this to say I am on a boat. Unhappily.
You understand, of course, my departure from Darromar without a formal farewell to the staff of the Asdefk. I shall miss enrapturing you all, along with your patrons, despite the miserly salaries you dolled—and I shan’t again claim to have not known a Dwarf that could read. Give my best to Ana, of course, and Liddy, and Merigold, and especially rosy-lipped Sariah. Bestow unending torment to that blackguard Kiriwick, to which I owe no less than twenty daublars. Tell that razor-beaked Hin that he may procure my debt when the Moonsea curdles and Elminster shaves his beard. I am in the employ of the Queen now.
Oh yes, Killian, you gape-nosed little stone-worshipper, I have received a contract from the hands of Queen Zaranda Star herself. I envision you reading this surprised; stop it.
Apparently, my ballads to the Duchess of the Golden Marches were exchanged with some enthusiasm among the higher courts of Zazesspur. While I was not surprised by their success, I’ll admit the arc in my eyebrows when I was invited to the Queen’s court. Handsome as I am, I paled like winter wheat before the beauty of the young Queen and her entourage.
Thus, my path and mission revealed itself, like the lamplight glow of the Moonmaiden on her Harrowing. No more shall the girls of the southlands be graced with my soothing voice and quick fingers. I, Willow of the Marches, unequaled in talent and charm, am to compose a survey of the distant island known as Arelith.
As thick and uneducated as you are, Killian, I imagine you’ve never heard of the island of Arelith. Do not feel sheepish; ignorance is the biproduct of your unsavory Dwarvish blood. As you are a reliable sample of the uneducated masses, this may be why I was given the mission in the first place. I am to venture across her mountains and plains, diligently recording the peoples and places, that the court in Tethyr might better understand this distant and enigmatic isle.
No finer suitor for this task can be found across the coastlands. Of this I am sure. No doubt, I will be received by these (presumably simple and uncivilized) peoples with the highest honor and fanfare. Armed with lute and quill, I will without a doubt paint so gorgeous a portrait of the land as to be lavished with honor after honor, until my striking features and unmatched charm give out to geriatric resignation. I shall draw the stories from these folk like a wizened alchemist extracts gold from the stones, and in the treasure of their tales I shall weave a patchwork masterpiece of humanoid lore.
Light a candle in the arbors for me, my densely-warted former employer. No more shall Willow, Rover of the Marches, ignite the very skies above the royal lands with his spirit and song. At least, not for a while. Do not let the damsels of Tethyr weep for me too long; they shall dehydrate from grief if they are permitted.
I expect it will take some time to reach the isle, as the ship’s captain demands to port in the Moonshaes. If I am not cudgeled to death by the dirt-eating skirt-men who spackle the landscape of Calidyyr, then I expect to set foot upon the unfurled red carpet of someplace called “Skal” in less than three month’s time.
Farewell, Killian, you gingerbread bastard, and good luck. When I am renowned as the unequaled composer of the “Song of Arelith,” I imagine I shall forget you entirely.
Dreams of Tymora to you,
