The letter was written in a neat, slanted cursive, with clearly overpronounced capital letters. The black, spikey words seem to contain a hint of malice, but whether or not the malice is implied remains a mystery. It beared a nobleman's seal at the top, the most prominent feature of which is a howling wolf beneath a silver disk.
The Most Honorable Lady Irane, of the noble Tarth,
Whilst I find irony in the sudden threat looming on the horizon as war in the southern realms becomes far more real and less of an illusion, I am willing to make an effort to listen to your cause. Yet, I do indeed believe that the word of man shall be his bond. I have given my word that a threat to the nations of the West will be answered. I only hope that this summon is not made at all lightly.
To such an end, I have sent this message along with a few of my scouts. Should they report back to me that the threat is indeed real and worthy of attention, then I will see to it that my forces are sent in full to join the battles.
It would be my pleasure to speak of this in person, should you require such a thing. My sphere is ready, should you need me. I would caution such an action, for Procipinee has shown interest in my lands, more than I would warrant as healthy. I expect to hear back from my scouts within a few weeks, a month at most.
Sorcerer-King Selric Envalon, of Adest
Selric glanced up from his desk at the two cloaked soldiers standing at attention near the door. Despite the smooth, flowing cloth, he knew that they were ready for any threat that might intrude upon Nathikal, the Spire of the Stars. Weapons bristled beneath, and each motion brought the slight chimes of steel mail, or the subtle 'ting' of plate. Every so often, the slight wave from a claymore was visible beneath the cloth, but it vanished as quickly as it came.
He folded the letter neatly, placing a small sphere of wax over the overlap. A thought flattened the wax, shaping it into a perfect disk, and then creating a small indent, a simple rune. Nodding at the seal, the Sorcerer-King held up the letter for a guard. As soon as his hand was halfway to his shoulder, both men were at attention next to him.
"Take this to the Starstriders," he said quietly, directing them to the guild of rangers that guarded the Adestan lands. "I want it to be delivered to Lady Irane of Tarth within a month. All haste is required. Please emphasize my specifications."
"By your will, sire," the two said in unison, their voices echoing from within spherical helms. They stepped aside and were gone with as much silence was possible when dealing with plate armor.
The Sorcerer-King rose, striding to the balcony just outside his chambers. Safe from incursion - the magic alone would reduce a dragon to ash, if only in theory - he stared in silence over Nathikal, the city quiet and dark at this hour. The sky above, a blue so dark it was nearly black, stretched out almost infinitely, broken only by long streaks of feathery clouds. As he stared into the west, to the lights of the harbor taverns bustling with sailors and onward, to the nearly infinite ocean beyond, he felt a shiver.
With the nations in a barely upheld truce, and grudges spanning what seemed to be a life-age of the world, was the letter from Tarth the first sign that the Cataclysm was not a one-time thing? Or that the world was destined to repeat those actions?
"The Wolves of Adest shall march," he said, finality in his voice.
Some of the clouds parted, if only briefly. The silver moon cast its light upon Nathikal, giving the city an ethereal quality, almost as if he was looking upon a ghost city. Stars dimmed, outshone by this brighter light, but a few remained gloriously, stubbornly glowing in the dark. Pinpricks, almost unworthy of their existence.
Such was the world.
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