Sophia Rulgakov,

I am Aoth Assadan, Merchant-Servant of Nephthys. I admire your lineage, for my people have also fought the Vile Thayans since their first arrivals, and I admire your campaign. You seem a proud, independent, and sensible woman, and because of such, I would like to offer to take your hand in marriage. I will offer you all the wealth of my lifestyle, and in return we would see both our blood-lines continued.

I hope to hear from you.

Aoth Assadan.

A flustered Sophia reads the note and fans herself briefly, contemplating all her girlhood dreams of wedding a proud, brutally strong Rashemi berserker. When she regains her iron composure, she quickly pens a letter:

Aoth,

Just as the Rashemi hunters must provide for their mates, I judge a man on his ability to provide for the one he ensnares. Come and speak with me, and if you are useful I will consider your proposal.

In the meantime, write me a poem worthy of my strength, will, and prowess in battle. The topic must be the slaughter of Thayan wizards clad in crimson.

- Sophia Rulgakov

[The letter carries her usual seal of a snarling wolf in profile]

A hastily written letter is returned by a fervoured Aoth.

Sophia,

I will be happy to see you, and I am sure you will be happy with me. I have written your poem, although it is more of a ballad as of now. I became enraptured in the image I was creating and could not stop.

Aoth.

In the Valley of Sun’s Blessings, there sat, A blackened boil upon the wild beauty of the sand and the grass, The Fortress of the Red Wizards. Their Robes red, their Hearts black, they spoke of War, When truly they meant Cowardice, Hiding behind feeble Magicks not meant for man. And all, bloated upon their bloody gains Smiled and thought themselves Safe behind their monster slaves, beasts glad for blood, As cruel as the Thay Mages themselves, Yet they did not know what came upon them.

At first, they heard a faint buzzing, like a million bees in distance. Then, it grew louder, like a great waterfall, miles away, And it grew louder still, like a thousand hounds, Then a thousand horses, And finally like a thousand great elephants trampling the ground, Outside their fortress. And so the fools looked, And upon the fields they saw their doom. Berserker-children of Rasheman, The pounding of their great feet blocking all noise, Charged upon the Fortress.

And at first the Wizards laughed, For they thought cursed magicks would stop the horde. Yet, as they cast they found themselves useless- For the Wise Witches, Bearers of the Arcane Art without Temptation Protected their children, And made the indulgent magic of the Thayans useless.

Yet they thought they were safe in their Fortress, As fat as they were, Yet that did not stop the great men of the Wildlands, Who clambered up its craggy wall And charged for blood down every hall Until, even the High Wizard Dead, Useless had been his Clever Head.

Aoth,

I am impressed. Title it 'Iron Sophia at War' and post it in the Town Hall to demonstrate the sincerety of my lust for the blood of Thayan slavers.

I will meet with you.

- Sophia Rulgakov

[The letter carries her usual seal of a snarling wolf in profile]