Dearest

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Dearest

Post by A Mystery Clock » Thu Apr 14, 2016 7:34 pm

Dearest,

It has been some time since we exchanged words, has it not? As I write, I am listening to the many quarrels of drow, as well as a very arrogant creature whom I firmly believe not to be human.

The weather in Andunor is lovely, on account of being absent. I had never thought it to be possible to flit about in fancy gowns without having to worry about those pesky rain showers. It is absolutely delightful.

The locals have been surprisingly tolerating, despite auntie's hopes I would have been killed right off the boat. Perhaps my staggering beauty has, yet again, shielded me from the hand of fate? Not only, but they have proven themselves eager of providing the specimen necessary to both appease my scholarly curiosity and pay the Toll. There will be -so- much to clean, and I am yet to find a suitable slave! Could you believe it? There is shortage of slaves in a place I had been assured was kept in utmost consideration between the estimators of the trade.


Inconceivable!
*The word appears to have been underlined several times.*


Aside from this little disgrace, what I believe to be the finest gentlemen on the isle have taken interest in my person. A fortuitous encounter that saved me the effort of impressing them later. Perhaps, soon, I shall be sending you new and delicious meat, so that your culinary curiosity will satified, just as mine has certainly been.

Please, send some mint with the next shipment.

Hugs and kisses,
Irry


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Re: Dearest

Post by A Mystery Clock » Fri Apr 22, 2016 10:40 am

Dearest,

It is with great distress that I write to you. The authority of those my well-being has been entrusted to seems shaky at best, and the results were remarkably dire. Dire enough that I would fear for my life, though I have done anything in my power to enter the good graces of the locals.

It would appear that those gentlemen I previously mentioned are in fact the source of my present woes, and that merely talking to them -or those he has introduced me to- is more than enough to warrant being manhandled on a whim. Alas, it is something I could not possibly know.

It seems I will have to lower myself to dealing with the most filthy creatures that dwell below, for they appear to be the ones who truly have an impact and influence upon the fair city of Andunor. If my attempts to extend such courtesy will fall short, I will be forced to find another way, or another place.

On a lighter note... but to be fair, dearest, there seem to be none. Every reason of mirth I could note down seems to have long vanished, and I am yet again about to do what I have sworn I would have tried to avoid. I do not loathe it, but it becomes more and more unpleasant every time, as feeling the blood spill out of another like the juice of a ripe fruit, and onto my hands, reminds me how close I am to a similar but far more messy end.

I may only hope that when time will come my reaper will use the same courtesy I use to my own victims, the same delicate touch, and the same solemn reverence.

With love,
Irry.



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Re: Dearest

Post by A Mystery Clock » Fri Apr 22, 2016 1:14 pm

*A much shorter note follows the first.*


Dearest,

Forgive my previous missive. A light-hearted joke, and nothing else. I happen to have lost a bet- you know how whimsical drow can be. I suppose they took some amusement in the idea I would have distressed you, and I would not deny my gracious hosts a moment of fun.

In truth, I continue to thrive. The weather is lovely, the cuisine excellent and the company splendid. As I write, I am preparing to attend a little soirèè with Andunor's finest, which I have little doubt will be a delightful experience.

Tata!
Irry.



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Re: Dearest

Post by A Mystery Clock » Sat Apr 30, 2016 11:49 am

Dearest,

Life continues to smile upon me. Beautiful things should go with beautiful things, beautiful people with beautiful people, and this, by divine grace, is precisely what it is happening.

However, I must ask, why is that so that no one has yet relegated the rabble where it belongs? Why must we endure, even in a fair city like this, to have our marble floors soiled by the filthy rags of a beggar, and have their sooty hands stain the edge of our skirts? Can't they-... I don't know. Perhaps we should build special places for them, so that we could live without being disturbed by their disgusting sight.

Forgive this little rant, Dearest, for I have found, much to my chagrin, that it is impossible to live here without at least pretending to tolerate the many subhumans inhabiting the streets. I will delve into details later, for I know that you (somehow) find interest in such disgusting things, perhaps because you have not yet been forced to endure them.

On a lighter note, it might not be long before I shall see you again. Years, mayhap, but the woeful incapacity of this city to uphold its pacts allows for more loopholes than they could even suspect.

The best is always kept for last, and the sweetest morsel I shall share is that many, fine gentlemen have engaged in a serrated courtship; while some would almost offend me with the arrogance of courting a Lady while holding no title and no properties, others come from noble lineages or hold respectable positions and a vast amount of wealth.

It is perhaps with a hint of shame, however, to add that between them is one of -very- humble origins. Alas, neither I nor you are stranger to having to deny what out heart desires, and I fear nothing will come out of it. Would you believe I fancy him so that I have even considered mixing my blood with one whose ancestors likely spent their days covered in dirt, without immediately discarding it? Madness, I know. But if you saw him, I am certain you would understand.

Fear not, dearest. I shan't consider such a thing before he will beg on his knees, and even then with the wisdom and poise that fits a Lady.

I am sending you a small box of local delicacies, with the hope it will be of your liking.

-Irry


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Re: Dearest

Post by A Mystery Clock » Sat Jun 25, 2016 12:29 pm

A spoon clinked over the edge of a plate. As the last sip was swallowed, tidy hands placed it back over a folded handkerchief before resting on her lap, eyes fixed on the porcelain edge.

"Well, of course. One does not become a conqueror without mettle. It is either something one has, or has not." Went a voice across the table. Male, young, arrogant, and ambitious.

"I agree, dear nephew. We always had high hopes for you. Hopes you have fulfilled since childhood. I congratulate with you." The voice of her mother. It was full of approval, though as quiet as it was her custom. Asb'el kept studying the elegant pattern drawn over the white porcelain, eyelids slowly drooping and almost coming shut. It is almost over - she thought - one last meal with the family. Do not fret. Stay. Think about something else.

"It is just the way things go, is it not? One will either rise or sink, and the cream always rises on top." Went the male again. A light clink of cutlery. The rustling of a handkerchief.

"In some cases it will just sour, nephew. And drain money from our coffers while being a humble servant at best." An almost annoyed tone now, accompanied by a little sigh.

"Well. Dead weight should be just culled, or made useful. There is no sense in being slowed down by someone else's failures."

"I wholeheartedly agree, nephew. Since you are such a capable commander, what would you do in such a case?"

"At the very least, I would not let her scrub someone else's floor and pay for it. If she only has a talent for bowing, then she could at least do it here, and make herself useful."

"Harsh words. She is still my daughter." Her mother's tone lowered, carrying an underlying note of warning. Her cousin was pushing too far. Asb'el silently wondered if they were trying to taunt her. She knew what she was capable of. Did they really want to see it? Had rending open a slave not been enough? Her fingers tingled, as the Power started flowing through her once more. Seething. Waiting. Begging to be unleashed against this babbling idiot.

"I apologize, aunt, but what use is a daughter that is costing you a fortune, for another's gain? She does not even carry the name of the house anymore, does she?"

"She does not." Irritation started creeping in her mother's voice. Her tone was as dry as sand.

"Now now, young Marek." Butted in the Elder Diplomat, soothingly "You speak brazenly, but foolishly. Your cousin became an Ambassador in distant lands, and very dangerous ones indeed, proving to be just as capable as you are."

"I have travelled to far-away kingdoms where the witches of the east roam, led my own battallion, slaughtered horrors the likes of which man has never seen and rose above the others all the same. Do not make a comparison between me and the scullery maid of dark elves."

"Duly noted." Said her mother. "Then, since you claim your superiority in her respect, you will decide what to make of her. Perhaps this way she will show some improvement."

A chilly silence fell over the dining room. Suddenly, every voice fell quiet, and every motion stopped. Asb'el finally dragged her eyes up, staring at the armor-clad young man sitting over the opposite end of the table. Her cousin started talking again.

"I have no use for her, myself. Perhaps she could be wed to someone influent, or could be used as breeding stock. I highly doubt she would make a good warrior, but at least she has a pretty face."

As he spoke, Asb'el had all the time to pluck her handkerchief up and gently dab it over the corners of her mouth. Her mother stared at her, almost expectingly, but she did not even bother to glance her way as she pushed her hands down, rising. Not a single word was uttered. Not a threat. As her superior, the Law decreted that she could have slayed him and taken his stance or would have died trying, and not a single breath would have been drawn once he had been dealt with. A hand sweeped up, index and pinky toe eloquently lifted.

"Dear cousin. I believe..." She began, as the other continued.

"... or perhaps she could learn to play an instrument and entertain us." Marek continued, drowning her words. There was a pause, and he turned to her, as if suddenly realizing she had spoken at all.

"Do not interrupt me." A sweep of her hand followed her remark. Marek hardly had the time to realize what was happening to him. His mouth barely managed to open, turning into a shocked rictus as the flesh tore open, and two separate halves of what once had been a man fell each in a different direction, rent asunder by an invisible and overwhelming force. Two disgusting, wet thuds echoed across the dining hall. Quietly, in the most perfect silence, Asb'el sat back down, smoothing her gown over her knees.

The whole room looked now as something populated by statues, aside from the enormous red stain blotting the throne on the opposite end. A little, impertinent saucer clattered loudly, a spatula grated over a plate with a deliberate creak as Asb'el helped herself to a slice of cake. Hastelessly, she jabbed a dainty spoon into it, and started eating.

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Re: Dearest

Post by A Mystery Clock » Tue Jul 19, 2016 12:17 pm

Dearest,

I have not written to you in some time, have I? I apologize, but I have been extremely busy in tending to the usual, lady-like endeavours that are appropriate for a woman of my age. As you know I am now married to the finest gentleman one could possibly wish for, and I may assure his manners are those of a purebred lord, of the kind I could bring back to a Thayan ball while being envied by all.

And this is the last proper line you will ever wring from me, you little, pitiable whore.

On the back of this letter you will find a bloody handprint. It is from the priest of Silvanus we have savagely murdered, cutting off his eyelids, sawing his chest open and feeding his pulped heart to a terrified slave. Did I mention me and my husband later feasted on its blood? Of course not, dearest friend. I could go on and on, describing all the atrocities that take place in my home, or pinky-swearing that the day you would see my beloved husband would be the one I'd see you cry and whimper in a pool of your own piss.

This said, do you think I do not know? You have schemed since the day you were put in chains, and turned your masters' most fragile little girl into the instrument of your revenge. You sicken me. And I will enjoy torturing your soul for all eternity, more than I have enjoyed anything in the past twenty years.

As you read, my Scourge is on the way. Start running. It will make hunting you down all the more entertaining. Oh, but forgive me, you are chained down, aren't you?

Silly me.

With love,
Irry


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Re: Dearest

Post by A Mystery Clock » Thu Jul 21, 2016 10:08 pm

It is a peculiar thought that there are some, perhaps deep beneath the earth, locked in a forgotten tower, or even sitting abreast of us, who have lost any direction. Not quite the light of good, or the righteousness of the just, but even the greed and bloodlust that drive the wicked. One may only fathom its lightless, uncertain depth, that restless feeling to have lost all grasp on one's soul. To feel one's self gradually dissipate, and forget how we once were. Were we anyone at all, ever, or has life just been an endless list of choices, where we only picked the proper and the convenient, shirking conflict, proceeding over a smooth path that stretches ahead of us, without surprises, to the point our will has ceased to have a meaning?

Lady Asb'el was one of such individuals. At a certain point, during the certain night of a certain day, she found herself in the embarassment of having quite a lot to write about, and no one to write to. After a lenghty pause, she began.

"Greetings."

She scribbled, before frowning and plucking another sheet of paper. It was anonymous, after all. So, why even bother to appear proper?

"Hello.

To whoever is reading, my name is Lady O. Of course it is not my real name, but the reasons will become clear further down. I am writing this letter because I have killed anyone else I could write to, and as it stands no-one else would listen. To whoever is reading, know that I most likely hate you, your family, and the city you live in. Not just because I am a monster, but because you are living a content and meaningful life and being forgetful of those who suffer. The likes of you -made- those like me. If I came to your door begging for help, for a chance to start over, you would just burn me alive. So, you leave me no choice but to keep going further, and going fast. If I have to burn, then the whole world will burn with me. If no one cares to help me, then I will slaughter you and all you love, just so I may revel in the satisfaction of having gone completely insane. I suggest you'd try, and try hard, to give me a single reason to stay in this world past delaying the horrors that await in the next, and making you regret the day you were born.

Have some compassion and help me, or die.

Your friend,
- O
."

By the first lights of morning, a neatly folded envelope fluttered over the skies of Arelith, falling down towards the ground like a single flake of fresh snow.


// Edit: the letter was found by a PC. If someone else wants to find the next ones, tell me. Else I will assume they were dropped by the imp always in the same place.

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Re: Dearest

Post by A Mystery Clock » Mon Jul 25, 2016 7:57 pm

"Hello.

Yesterday I had to eat the meat of an elf, whose death is largely my fault. The one who cooked it for me was surprised when I started retching. They apologized, as if they had not thought I could have reacted that way. I could not stop thinking about her bruised face, and about the way she held her broken arm. I could not stop thinking that her husband and children will weep for her, and that her life ended by being butchered like cattle. I clenched my jaw, and kept eating. It was not the first time, but this was without doubt the worst. I do not have any qualms in killing, or warring, but this was different. Worst of all, the meal was cooked as a sign of affection. I do not know what to do. When I am not writing, eagerness to obtain more and more recognition consumes me, and killing becomes easy. But when I am, I am not even certain whether I should ask to be forgiven or destroyed.

Yours
Lady O."


// This letter may still be found. PM me if you wish to find it.

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Re: Dearest

Post by A Mystery Clock » Wed Dec 14, 2016 8:42 pm

In the hours immediately preceding sunrise, a cool desert breeze blew through the cliffs. The sand felt cold and compact beneath Irezan's slippers, and yielded slightly beneath her weight as she stopped. To her left, ancient sandstones had been eroded by the wind, creating half-sunk festoons of queerly shaped rock, vaguely reminding of petrified flowers. To her right, a patch of flowering cacti, and the black husk of a desert scorpion crawling slowly between the spines. Abovehead, the cliffs cut the night into fractured strips, with the deep black of the sky and the uncertain twinkle of fading stars paling into a deep blue, then a stroke of red over the horizon. With its soundless stillness and violent clash of colours, the desert felt much like a dream. Something both alien and indifferent to her passage. A place where law or judgement, doom and destiny had no meaning. And suddenly, it occurred to the woman in blue that she was completely alone. Even the pit fiend had left her. She had expected to hear Roland or Rauvlin's voice, or perhaps to see Stellen appear to urge her back to Sibayad. And yet, the more she waited, the more it became bafflingly evident no such thing would have happened.

The world would have kept spinning. The people would have been perhaps sad for a time, but would anyone have truly bothered? Would it have made much of a difference if she had turned in one direction rather than the other? While the thought would have frightened, and perhaps saddened another, to Irezan was accompanied by a strange sense of relief. Sibayad, Andunor, Talyrrae, Roland, Wharftown, Cordor sounded in her mind like the ring of distant bell on a far away shore. Like names that belonged to a time long past, long swallowed by the incessant toil of the centuries, so that their memory had grown dingy and faded.

And what if she had simply kept walking? Nobody would have bothered to chase her. It occurred to Irezan, in this state of blessed grace, not even devils would have dared lay claim on her soul. There were no chains in this place, only impregnable and monolitic serenity. She just had to keep walking.

And so, she did.

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Re: Dearest

Post by A Mystery Clock » Fri Dec 16, 2016 3:00 pm

Unrest had started spreading among desert tribes. Rumors of a devil from the east ran from camp to camp and passed from mouth to mouth like the flight of an arrow. A few- some said they were charlatans, other visionaries and prophets, recounted the tale round the uncertain flickering of a dying bonfire, surrounded by the dusky outlines of gaunt and hardened bodies, thrice-wrapped in dusty shawls. The tale spoke of a pale traveller, hair blazing like the desert sun, wandering across canyons and dunes. Some spoke of the magnificence of her ornaments and called her a benevolent djinn. Others, of far more commendable wisdom went into lenghty details describing malevolent omens, reading doom into the entrails of camels and the ashes of the bonfire, and remarking to those youngest and most impressionable the dangers of meddling with creatures not of this world.

Asad-al-uquul had seen her once, from a distance. Her robe, the colour of water, stood out against the deep ochre of the dunes. Even from that distance, he could catch the red gleam of the rubies adorning her brow- and felt curious at first, and marveled at the sight of one of such fair skin walking the sands with no camel and no company. He felt strangely compelled to follow, to find out how her voice might have sounded like. Yet a shiver ran down his spine when she turned, beckoning him closer. His eyes did not miss the vague outline twisting behind her shoulders, in a shape his mind could almost pin a name to, or the way the scorching heat did not seem to have taken a toll on her. It was not a desperate gesture, the arms of a lost nomad stretching in silent prayer, but a welcoming one, entirely devoid of fear. Despite the heat, a paralyzing chill had crept in marrow of his bones, and he immediately made his way in the opposite direction. He did not need or dare to turn to know that the figure made no attempt to follow, keeping her gaze on him until he was well out of sight.

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Re: Dearest

Post by A Mystery Clock » Tue May 29, 2018 5:26 pm

Nearly thirty years have passed, since the shores of Andunor first welcomed a figure in blue. She arrived accompanied, carrying a leather portmanteu and a few personal effects. A little over a decade later, the same blonde woman stiffly departed from her mansion in the Wheel, after a curt goodbye to a pink-haired drow and a black skinned tiefling. She left almost in the same conditions as she arrived- with the exception of a hefty baggage of glory, power, and gold- only the latter of which followed on that ship.

And just like that, Lady Asb'el Dorè was gone. Those who knew her were left to speculate about her fate, curse her name and, mayhap, dare express discontent and concern. In the all too peculiar style that characterized her life, the Lady did not see fit to inform any about her destination, not even the closest and most trusted companions. Fifteen, long years passed.

The very same woman now sat behind a short zhurkwood table, not looking one day older than she had for the entirety of her life. A pale hand dipped a quill in an elaborate golden inkwell, then started writing.

"You will find in this chronicle of mine nobody to address it to. My dearests are no longer in this world, nor is Lady Asb'el Dorè.

Nearly fifteen years have passed since I have penned my thoughts on something as tangible as paper. The last time it was my will, and all too fittingly marked the death of Lady Asb'el Dorè, the way she was known at the time. Never before I had been so honest about my wishes and desires, or more humble about the misery of my situation. It was too much, and too wrong, for me to formulate, let alone speak out loud. And yet the words were there, written by my own hand.

It comes a time, I believe, in every being's life where we try to deny who we truly are, and what we truly want. It is something that is born out of sorrow, fear, or simple survival. And so, we mutilate ourselves. We cut ourselves into greater forms, we polish ourselves until nothing but the sterile gleam of steel is left, and we pad the space between the walls, so that we will not have to listen to very unpleasant truths. And, for a time, this is fine.

Yet one day we shall wonder why gold has lost its shine, and why we feel so unfulfilled with the world in the palm of our hand. I, Lady Asb'el, born Irezan, forgot that my wealth and my might were not my goal, but a tool. In my folly, I forgot that I was brought to Andunor as an exile and a slave, that I murdered my sister out of unbearable jealousy, and that that, in turn, was born from a rejection too monstruous for a human heart to withstand.

And to all the saints and angels running their mouths about the virtues of humility I say: nonsense. We must be proud in the face of adversity. We must be arrogant, and mighty. To refuse to stand down with the hand we have been dealt, to scream and curse the stars 'till our very last breath. And- if we may- to make violence to life sooner than we'd make violence to ourselves.

Now I see clearly that Andunor was my prison- not my home. And yet my jailors, my -masters- let me rise among their ranks. I paid a bitter price for my freedom: many years of humiliation and patience, of terror and loneliness, which I have forced myself to love and justify in the most genuine of ways, rather than just pretending. The price for such a perfect disguise being no more and no less than the loss of one's true self.

And so I lay, unconscious. A few, I believe, have glimpsed my true nature in all those years. It seeped through the cracks. The slaves I bought, yet protected. The family, even friends I made out of the most vile of assassins, outcast, drow. The man I was so desperate to love, against all convenience or reason.

The blue dragon, Zeshyrr'kalikstrasza, swept in and out of my life, near the very end. I believe his affection was as superficial as mine was, and I too was lured by the promise of power. Yet for all its brief life and ephemeral nature was more straightforward, more delicate and gentle than any other before. A word of comfort, a reassuring embrace, a caress coaxed me from my slumber, like the touch of a mother awakening his child. That honest and unapologetic warmth was but a spark, yet kindled a fire that warms me to this day.

Wherever you are, Zeshyrr'kalikstrasza, I remember you. And I am grateful.

And I remember Rosario, my sweet child. I remember Amraphensbane, my unlikely friend. I remember my bittersweet mother, Talyrrae, and my sister Rauvlin. I remember Nyilan, whom I loathed and miss dearly at once. I remember Ty'al- whom I had desired since the day I stepped off that boat, and whose many rejections wounded me more than he could ever fathom. I remember Vindel, who had mercy of me. I remember, with a fondness that is sister to despair, a time when Asen took my hand and told me to not be afraid.

Whether or not the death of my beloved was a fruit of my machinations, it is not for you to know. However, know that there would have been no rest for me for as long as he had lived. And to a degree, we both perished in the fight. Let's just say- one more literally than the other. But it is no pleasant affair to find out the place one had fooled themselves into considering a home is truly a prison to break out of, and that one's beloved companions either do not care or have been sharpening knives in the eventuality one would stop doing exactly what they wanted.

I wandered the surface for a time, and the planes beyond. I would like to say that I have rested, when in truth those were miserable years. Long years where I ran as far as what little strength I had could carry me, then rested in a dazed stupor, digesting the notion I was a survivor, rather than a failure. And that I had not lost what I had- rather I had nothing to begin with. It took days, months, years, lined up after each other to put matters in perspective. An eternity of failed attempts to settle down and live a peaceful life, among people who could not understand me if they tried.

I came to accept I've little in common with folks who led an ordinary life. And that idle serenity, and kindness of spirit is something I may never achieve, nor I should ever attempt. And slowly but surely, realized my own worth. The notion I could at last do what I wanted, go where I wanted, and thrive without fault wherever I chose to be was overwhelming. Those who were born under somebody's heel never had the luxury of developing a will- and my own was birthed after a labour that lasted the better part of my life.

You may imagine my surprise when I found out I could return to the deep dark, let alone that I -wanted- to. Back to the scent of caves, the glow of mushrooms, its sombre quiet. That devils were still quite pleased to do business with me, albeit on my own terms. That the drow of cities whose names I will not mention, but you may very well guess, were impressed and curious about my knowledge of their kin, and my ability to make deals that satisfy all parties involved. Or that the fringes of these cities I'd have met kindred spirits from the most disparate walks of life. There is a wealth of individuals here that are neither saintly nor cruel, who understand business as much as they understand kinship, and who- much like myself- lived long enough to forge their own path.

Vus'zerin is one such individuals. And I must thank life for being the utterly illogical, chaotic madness it is, for if life abided to the rules of believable narrative my beloved and I would be the protagonists of a very unlikely tale. The thought amuses me, for there is none in all creation who may understand the other as deeply, and I am certain, none other brazen enough to forge such an outrageous bond. I was mistified at the internal workings of this creature, who abandoned his station to join me, and who never justified this and many other unfavourable deals beyond "p'wal usstan ssinssrinil ulu".

Vaxis and Morene occasionally poke fun at me. I find it refreshing. Though not as refreshing as dropping an ice storm on those thick heads of theirs. Surely crossed my mind a few times. But they keep the company in check, and we work well together. The first time we met they tried to stab me: the knife did not even pierce my skin and the look on their face is something I will treasure to my grave. I have started practicing magic under Dhaunae's guidance, and while a difficult struggle, she seems pleased with my results enough to be even more dour than usual. We are making a name for ourselves: no forgotten hold is too dangerous, no bounty too elusive, and no meeting in the middle of nowhere too daunting.

I am content, and, at last, I am home.

Signed,
Irezan Odeiresson-Illance, outcast and exile.
Lady Asb'el Xun'viiir-Dorè, quartermaster and slavemaster of the Azure Cartel, illustrious grandmaster of the Iron Court, Favoured of Dis, Ambassador of Andunor, Tyrant of the Sharps, Hero of the Sands, Damkianna of Sibayad, widow of Warlord Vindel of the Devil's Table.
Isabel the Azure, lady of eternal mercy, the devil of the depths."

The end of the letter gave her pause, for a moment. Then, she dipped the quill again and moved to a different parchment.

"Dear daughter,

It has come to my attention that you have been dabbling in the puddle of broken dreams colloquially known as Andunor. I hope you have not done so over some manner of romantic nonsense, for I refuse to believe to have given birth to a blithering fool. This letter of mine followed the former, only to warn you that my original invite amounts -to my chagrin- to an unnecessary nuisance and a waste of time for yourself. We have never met, and from what I understand we have very little in common, but I am alive and well. As much as I doubt this is the case, should any in Andunor be in the sorry condition of weeping their eyes our after my hasty departure, I'd rather they stop. It is a somewhat childish inclination, and it will give them wrinkles.

You have little to worry from the Nine. We are still in business, and it is not up to a handful of unprofessional charlatans or, Dis forbids, -imps-, claim otherwise. I would like to add that Lord Maximillion has always been exquisitely polite, and that the bulk of my displeasure rests to this day on many, little, pitiable individuals whom I would not entrust with holding my purse, let alone recount events faithfully.

One last thing: I will be very displeased if you or any other will attempt to track this missive down, or visit me without a formal invite- which I may or may not issue if and when I will consider any of my former acquaintances worthy of being missed. Feel free to warn any enthusiast that should they try, and by some bizarre twist of fate succeed, I will not hesistate to blow your and their head in a billion tiny pieces.

Love,
Lady Asb'el Dorè"

The letter was then neatly folded, and left on the table. The woman stood, wiping her hands with a finely embroidered handkerchief- by now more a trophy than a memento- and stepped out into the cool air of the Upperdark.

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