"What in the bloody nine HELLS happened to you?"
The young man glared at the portly Royal Postmaster balefully, gray eyes
clear and bright with frustration despite the fact that he looked as if he
got dragged between horse carriages from Larmian to Velkemarril. Maybe
further. His reddish-brown hair was tangled, and hung in a sweaty, dusty
mop on his head, so laden with his own oil that his brown cap kept slipping
off his hair. Loose, ratty breeches, worn boots, and a white shirt, now
brown with dust from travel, completed his tired look. He didn't know what
he looked like at the moment, nor did he much care. He didn't even know why
he agreed to make the trek in the first place.
All Tir Branwen knew was, when he saw that goat-arsed monkey again, that he
was going to maim Drysen "Fox" Aisli whenever he and the rest of the Queen's
overseas entourage got back from gods-cursed Alesia.
"Well??" the Postmaster snapped. "I don't have all day you know, I'm a
fairly busy man."
'Busy alright,' seventeen-year old Tir thought, digging into his weathered
packsack to pull out twp rather battered scroll cases, one marked in red
wax. 'Busy getting it on with the bloody cook for extra sweetbuns from the
kitchen.' He shoved it in the man's sausage-fingered hand.
"Make sure Lady Caelan Rainier gets the red-marked one as soon as possible,"
Tir grumbled, before he turned around and trudged to the door. "I'm gonna
go take a bath."
**********
*in a blocky, messy script, 'Dear,' 'My lady,' 'Heya kiddo,' had been
crossed out in black on the first line. There are splotches of ink
everywhere, as if not carefully blotted by whoever (Fox) decided to write on
the parchment.*
Cael,
I'm not really big on writing letters, it's like I completely forgot how to
use a *an assumedly crude expletive crossed out* quill ever since I
graduated from the Academy. I would've gotten Conlin to write this for me,
but the other bastards're already teasing me for writing to you so I figured
I better do this on my own. At least this way, they're going to have to
wonder what I've been writing to you. Heh, heh, heh. I think they're
expecting that I'm writing some awkward, romantic prose or some sh*crossed
out* stuff like that, but I think the rest of them're getting lonely for
home and for all the women they left behind. Well, except Griffith. He
really hasn't been the same since Catterli got killed, sometimes I got to
wonder about him though, I've barely seen him since we arrived. Conni's
still pretty easygoing, I think out of all of us, him and Lieutenant Prax
are the only ones really enjoying this gods-cursed foray.
Alesia is.... *several ink spots here as if the writer paused to think about
what he would say without cursing the Gods for planting the country where it
was* ....well, it's not really much different from Myst. Winters in Myst
don't usually look as dull and gray as here though, and the buildings are
all square and symmetrical. There really isn't anything remarkable about
it, except probably more than half of the guys who grew up here are
enlisted, or have been enlisted in the Imperium's army one way or another.
Most of them are shorter, but beefy like Prax. I'm starting to think any
full grown male less than 30 inches across the shoulders are considered
effeminate around here. Or something. At least they haven't started
drinking our blood or chewing on our collective rear-ends yet.
Her Highness *for some reason, his handwriting pressure increased here a
bit* is having a grand time. She's been spending a lot of time with...I
don't know how to spell his name. Cutiebrat, I think. He looks like a
grizzled yak and old enough to be her grandfather, but they get along well.
I think Ja*the rest of her name is crossed out* the Queen is thinking of
shackling him to her, by marriage or iron chains, so we might have an
Alesian consort to the Queen soon. Hopefully he won't take over when it
gets to that point, bloody bastard's already leeching enough of her time.
I haven't written to Rowie yet, though I probably should get to that soon.
How's everything in the palace? Are Captain Wolfshire and Lady Concordia
doing well? What about your friends? Is Dora still giving you a hard time?
I don't know how long we're staying here, Cael. Months. A year, I don't
know. I'm too old to feel homesick, but seriously, ever since we got here
I've been wanting to go home. Not just because of...everything else, but
there's something here that doesn't feel right to me. All of the other
Elites are feeling it. They look like the way they always do, but only
another one of us would be able to tell that each are wound tighter than a
corkscrew on a winebottle. Maybe because we're too far away from the mists,
but it's as if each day gets darker and darker over here for us. Nights get
my hackles up for no reason, and damn if I've had a decent sleep since I got
here. It doesn't help that her majesty keeps sneaking out on us. I caught
her in an inn far away from where she should be and I lost it...half because
of what she'd been doing, and half because this really isn't the time to be
going off on her own with someone she's barely met, not with what the rest
of us have been feeling. It's dangerous out here. I can't explain to you
why I think it, and while it's peaceful enough, there's just
this....something in my gut telling me that if we're not careful, we're all
going to die here.
Mage-Master Tyvian always said back then that Elites were bred to be
paranoid. He never mentioned how ill inside I could get being paranoid and
knowing that somehow, I'm right. I don't expect anyone else to believe me,
not even the Queen (hells, she -didn't- believe me when I told her), but my
brothers here do and that's enough for me for now. We'll be on our guard, I
promise.
*several ink splotches, annotating another pause as if the quill had been
held dripping while the writer thought some more*
I really only have room to write two letters before Tir set off back to
Leturia, three if I wrote real fast. Could you somehow reach my sister in
the Hideaway and tell her all of us are fine so she can pass it off to
Griffith's and Conni's folks?
We'll all try our best to return soon. I'll see if I can get you a souvenir
from here before heading back.
*more scratched out words. He wasn't kidding when he said he wasn't big on
letter writing*
~ Fox
*******
--'Lex
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