Post by g1megatron on Mar 28, 2009 12:47:51 GMT -5
A formal letter arrives outside of the normal courier service.
The outer envelope is address to one Duke Eltan of the Ducal Palace.
Like all items that arrive to be read by any of the Dukes, it is thoroughly tested by all known methods before being allowed to grace hand or eye.
The letter is lightly perfumed with a mixture of rose, citrus and honey locus. The aroma hangs lightly in the air, the intoxicating whiff relaxing chest and mind.
As the page unfurls, gold gilded ink greets the eyes.
Duke Eltan,
Salutations.
It is unfortunate that I write this letter under remorse. As a resident of the majestic city of Baldur's Gate and it's rich outlaying lands, I regret to inform you of a pullulating, perturbing plight.
It is well known to many the roads to Beregost are long and dangerous; ruins dot the moors, harboring bandit or beast. One dilapidation in particular lays adjacent the road most traveled to that whimsical hamlet.
It is there a veritable army of wayward souls and bodies of lost, forgotten victims rose again in a cacophony of wales and moans. Akin to a saber on skin, a calamitous chorus of impish prattle pierced the lucidity of sanity.
The council no doubt have acquired reports from the famed Flaming Fist alluding the restoration of an unceremonious plague.
Even now intrepid beings canvas sod and stream for a "Relic of the Ramsets."
I write this letter as a foretelling of distress, an admonition of anguish. I fear for your city Duke Eltan. May the wisdom of deities grace your deliberations, for an insipid interval undauntedly crusades to herald in maleficent shepherds of sorrow for the people of Baldur's Gate and The Sword Coast.
Mournfully,
Sélah Shartess
The outer envelope is address to one Duke Eltan of the Ducal Palace.
Like all items that arrive to be read by any of the Dukes, it is thoroughly tested by all known methods before being allowed to grace hand or eye.
The letter is lightly perfumed with a mixture of rose, citrus and honey locus. The aroma hangs lightly in the air, the intoxicating whiff relaxing chest and mind.
As the page unfurls, gold gilded ink greets the eyes.
Duke Eltan,
Salutations.
It is unfortunate that I write this letter under remorse. As a resident of the majestic city of Baldur's Gate and it's rich outlaying lands, I regret to inform you of a pullulating, perturbing plight.
It is well known to many the roads to Beregost are long and dangerous; ruins dot the moors, harboring bandit or beast. One dilapidation in particular lays adjacent the road most traveled to that whimsical hamlet.
It is there a veritable army of wayward souls and bodies of lost, forgotten victims rose again in a cacophony of wales and moans. Akin to a saber on skin, a calamitous chorus of impish prattle pierced the lucidity of sanity.
The council no doubt have acquired reports from the famed Flaming Fist alluding the restoration of an unceremonious plague.
Even now intrepid beings canvas sod and stream for a "Relic of the Ramsets."
I write this letter as a foretelling of distress, an admonition of anguish. I fear for your city Duke Eltan. May the wisdom of deities grace your deliberations, for an insipid interval undauntedly crusades to herald in maleficent shepherds of sorrow for the people of Baldur's Gate and The Sword Coast.
Mournfully,
Sélah Shartess