letter

Urilla makes another letter for Miss Rethelia, but this paper is of crude quality. The stamp of the Exodar is on the note, but nowhere to be found are the fine stationary of Frostmana. The note lies on Urilla's bed, perhaps forgotten as she heads off to train yet another day. It reads...

Light above...this man is huge! It's as if the Naaru chisieled him out of obsidian chunks, and crafted ivory stones for his eyes and teeth. His arms seem to be as hard as titansteel, his bones of enchanted thorium, hardened, and tempered, he shows no pain, feels no pain when he trains us. It's good that we have such an honored man in our midst. It appears that he has seen much turmoil in his life, yet only within the swings of his blade and voice can you sense it.

The letter would be sent to Miss Fallowtide's residency in Dalaran with the absolute care and professionalism. Upon the envelope was the seal of Frostmana pressed lightly upon the opening of the envelope. With the letter came an expensive cane, mahogany wood with ivory grip tip.

Dearest Rethelia:

I hope you enjoy the cane, it is always a saddening sight to see you hobbling around the city last I saw you. How I miss you so! I tried to stop by in Dalaran while ona whirlwind tour of Eastern Kingdoms, and to the Citadel to the north. I was recently in the Quel'thalassian city, and you would not believe the sights I've seen. Their lands were ravaged like the human-owned lands. Just like the humans, they suffered so much. But my eyes are not like theirs, nor my skin tone. Perhaps that is why I was unable to make many friends there. It's so easy to talk to you, you're such an accepting sweetheart. Don't ever change that, OK?

Tap-tap-tap.
Tap-tap-tap.
Tap-tap-tap.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Rae sat at her desk, rapping her fingers absently against the hard surface while staring off into space. A shrill shriek jolted her out of thought, the frigid winds of Icecrown trying and failing once more to penetrate the thick stone barrier between the small blonde and the outside. Looking through her window doesn't help the somber mood; the white snow seems a mockery of purity covering the barren, defiled grounds in the distance. She sighed, shaking her head at her own jumpiness, and returned her attention to a letter propped up in center stage.

((In this letter, past and present are highlighted, as Urilla formally accepts her role as Duchess of Frostmana Citadel. While this goes on, the letter from her father  written while he lived, plays out in tandem in italics. I hope you as the reader enjoys it as much as I did seeing it unfold in my mind.))

My Dearest Child:

Accepting the role as Duchess or Duke is one to never be taken lightly, as I accepted the role with a heavy and solemn heart as my Lord bestowed upon me the vows I would serve with all my being.

The wooden doors sweep open, creating a bellowing echo through the Great Hall. Massive banners depicting the manor’s coat of arms from Quel’thalas’ past adorn the ceiling above the festivities. Silver and lavender colors mix and match with each banner, some intentionally left worn, and dingy to depict days of old. The crisp, clean banners highlighting the newest of the Starscythe line finally come home.

Dear Chane,  (do I have to call you Mr. deCouer?)

Your letter cheered up a gray and freezing day.  Thank you.  I'm not normally much of a writer either, but now that the action's died down, maybe it will calm my nerves.  I've been sitting here till my feet go numb, trying to imagine myself back to the dock outside the Faire and into a pair of warm arms.

Ye gods, I'd forgotten the cold.  I've got my old fur-lined gloves and scarf, but it doesn't matter how many layers you wear.  The cold sneaks through everything.  Probably doesn't help that we've got trenches dug into the frozen ground to get us out of sight of the Twilight casters.  We don't have enough fuel for heat or cooking.  We don't have the right kind of shelters.  The healers spend more time on frostbite than combat injuries.  We were not ready for this.

Dear Blackmarrow,

  It would be determined by most to have lain to rest hope by now but despite months and no news, I still wish you well and I will never stop writing. I find tonight lonely my dear teacher, though my house is as full as ever... 

Se’ala,

I made sure to enjoy a pineapple drink for you; I expect what I brought for you to be all gone by now; if so, that makes me happy, I’m glad you enjoyed it.  Thank you for writing; I only realized how much I missed you once I’d been gone.

I stayed in Outland a few days after you returned to your work protecting the soldiers who fight with you, and so only got your letter a few days ago.  I think I know how much you miss your father and the rest of your family.  My mother died recently, and though I know her to be at rest, it still leaves a hollow ache in my heart.  Is that how you feel?  If you wish to speak of it, I will listen.

Kyi'lin was getting used to navigating the Bluffs, the elements were helping prevent her from stumbling over the edge, but after going on her own little explotations without Raeril's small hand tugging her carefully along, the Troll seemed to now know her way around the Spirit Rise and Main Bluff. The Elder Rise was next, but for now Kyi was happy with getting to the inn for a simple meal. Her steps were careful and the Taurens often moved out of the way, giving her shoulder a gentle pat of encouragement. By the time Kyi'lin reached the inn, she was in a good mood, the sun warmed the Bluffs and a gentle breeze ensured that it would not grow too hot. This place was surely favoured by the elements for it's people's respect of them. Raeril had taken the liberty of dividing Kyi'lin's coins into seperate pouches, allowing her to simply hand the pouch to the innkeeper in return for her usual meal of tea and fresh bread.

The moon hung fat and full over Stormwind City.

Suldrae was not sleeping.  A warm front had washed in with the tide, changing temperatures too quickly, leaving her sweating alone in the pink room.  But the heat, she knew, was not wholly at fault for her sleeplessness.  Once rested, once fed, once Arasminna had left her, she had found herself staring at the ceiling, rolling over in her head all the offenses, defenses, fears, resolutions, solutions, questions... what was she going to do?  Her pink room.  Amara's obsidian key.  The look in Arasminna's eyes when she had left her, torn between the two.

This letter is penned in a scribe's neat, precise hand.


My dear Moshir,

First of all I would like for you not to worry when you receive this letter. I am well, as is your father, and if you are reading this letter then we are together again at last.

Don't give me that look. Keep your chin up. I would stay with you if I could, but if I am gone I know that you are strong enough to take care of yourself. You know that I miss your father greatly. He and I have a lot of catching up to do. I promise we will be there when you need us, if we can.

She should have been happy.

The letter had arrived bent in half, creased, and a little damp. The handwriting was his, smudged though it was, and the short note inside had brought a smile to her face easily.

It hadn't lasted, though. Too many worries, too many old fears crowding the inside of her head. She caught the courier watching her as she skimmed the note, and jammed it deep in a pocket before snarling at the smug elf and making her escape. Out the door into the rain, up the ladder to the narrow room she shared with the other healers. One hand slipped on the wet ropes, tearing skin. She cursed, spat, and ignored it. She needed somewhere safe, hidden.

((A response to Moshir's letter in Good Friends.))

((A reply to Moshir's Movement and Stillness.))

((A response to Se'ala's Another Week, Another Letter))

Se’ala,

Glad to hear the Stoneflayer’s fury was no match for you.  Your strength is, I’m sure, much more fully appreciated by those who count on you to protect them than those who only see numbers and machines.

I have a friend who flies as well; she uses the Loa’s power to take the form of a bat, rather than riding a wyvern.  She describes it as being similar to being picked up by a wave when one is swimming in the ocean.  How does it feel when you’re soaring through the air?  Be careful though, it sounds like there’s much danger there, no matter where one is.

((A reply to Moshir's letter in Call and Response.))

Synnaquinn,

  Greetings darling warlock, I hope the day is finding you mending well from our bad attempt at sailing.  I hope your friend is mending as well, both body and mind; I do worry about how far the naga pushed her. 

The idea of blaming Varnbek for the influx of patrons was an inviting one, but Sintu didn't immediately stoop to it. Surely there was a perfectly reasonable explanation why complete strangers were knocking on her door to ask for specific products or, more often, to sell her junk they'd acquired from places best left unimagined. The latter occurred with infuriating frequency, but she sold her wares for several times the amount which she had to give up to the hawkers.

It was never easy to write when your hands were shaking. Ace knew she was pushing herself far, far to hard this time, but there was too much to do and not enough time to do it in. Between fixing and mostly running the shop while Iloam was out, still being a Healer on call for the Knights, and spending time with her children…

She hadn’t slept in a week. She’d run out of coffee twice, the big canisters of it. Of course, the coffee was only a supplement. She’d figured out a way to use the Sunwell’s energy to force her mind into realizing it wasn’t as tired as it thought it was. One day, her card castle was going to crash down around her splendidly, but that wasn’t going to be today.

Ace took a deep breath and pressed the nib of the quill to the parchment, ink her signature ruby red, and carefully formed each and every letter of each and every word.

Alexiia picked her shoes off the floor of the carriage, and opened the door. She stepped out into the door way, looking off into the east she saw the sun starting to peek up over the city's walls. She nodded to the driver before turning around and opening the door.

She slowly pushed open the door, there was a few girls wandering about the main hall... the 'early risers' as it was. Videl was over at the bar area, having her morning tea, as she usually did. The mistress looked over at Alex as she placed the cup of tea down onto the bar. "Late Night?"

Alex walked right by her, seemingly without even noticing that Videl had said anything. She reached out for the curtin that divided the back rooms from the hall. "Took a little longer then expected, she ended up bitting off a bit more then she could chew."

She tossed a small bag over her shoulder, it landed on the bar next to Videl with a hard thud. A few gold coins spilled out of the top as it landed.

An envelope was tacked to the lid of a wooden box and delivered to Darkshire estate of the Marquis of Vinguld. 

The letter inside was written in Thalassian and read:

In which Pinapple does something really stupid.

To the Convocate of the Arcana.

Did Hamlen Prideaux conquer the city by chance? I was recently at the Fancy Cakes and he used the exact words in response to a ruffian, "You do not have freedom of speech." The ruffian had stated that in speaking out against the fact that Hamlen was elected to his post he was exercising his freedom of speech. A moment later, one of Hamlen's Blood Knights sucker-punched the man in the chest and Hamlen told him that our citizens do not have freedom of speech. Promptly after that, the man challenged the statement and Officer Prideaux stated he was placing the man under arrest. The man in question escaped, but it raises a doubt in my mind.

Are we living in a city for the free and in a nation where we are allowed to have the free thinkers and great artists, like we once did, or are we living in a Dictatorship lead by this masked Blood Knight?

((I'm apologizing in advance for the dry, uninspired wall of text! Caveat lector.))

Three days ago I learned that, in spite of the old saying, you can go home again.

Rethelia crushed the letter in her hand and felt its sharp, crumpled edges dig into her palm.

Of course Lady Howell would suggest their meeting take place in her home- the girl should have expected no different outcome. Now, there was nothing she could do. To insist anywhere else was to show too particular a preference and, more importantly, fear.

She felt that fear, that sticking, sickly danger, acutely, so she did the only sensible thing- she sent her assent immediately.

Of course. She would be there.

The girl walked awhile in the dark, silent night that Stormwind had become. She threw the invitation into the canal.

Dearest Mother,

It probably brings you little joy to receive my letter, but you insisted I write you about my sister Sabyne and her progress in her studies. If you marked the notices that were sent out, you would have been informed that she has progressed into advanced applications of scrying, and now heads the Order's oracle division. She does not do very much field research these days, so I'm sure you will be gratified to learn of her safety. Also, no, she hasn't suddenly developed any interest in pursuing marriage with any of the idle rich of Stormwind. Their ignorance of the world remains a deterrent even to Sabyne's eager-to-please personality.

Dalaran. The city of mages, champions, adventurers, dragons and mothers. The dawn rose and shone it's struggling rays upon the city as it did without fail. In the wake of the northern morn, a courier stood before Kalidormi, holding in his shaking hand a single peace of parchment folded in half. On the top half of the parchment in long, elegant writing the word 'Mother' was written, a fleck of red stain beside the black ink made a mockery of a period.

Inside the letter, the writing was of a different hand, more compact and simple.

My dearest Mother,

Cerwys hunched over a desk in the Archerus, finishing the letter she was working on. She sighed and signed the name on the envelope with a flourish and hearthed to Stormwind before shoving the thing in the nearest mailbox. Her penmanship could definately use some work, but then again it figured that her motor skills were not as well as they should be. Cerwys patted the mailbox and hoped the mail goblins would be competent enough to deliver it to whom she wished. If it worked, it worked...if not...So be it. The Death Knight ran a hand through her hair and opened a death gate, startling a nearby worker. She smirked and stepped through, relishing the cool feel of the magic. She would wait for a response and not act until recieving it.