The note reeks of a wench's cheap perfume and the aroma of cheap wine

Esteemed Brother in Search,

I have, during one of my more voracious revels, come upon a notice you left sometime ago, calling for men unafraid to seek the surface. A grand thing, that- a call back to a time in the past when Sanctuary was a hardy place, full of courage and strength, the stuff of legends. The stuff of Frederick Bresley.

Your note is old and wrinkled, like some crone's abandoned dream. There is a crude drawing upon it, of a large minotaur squatting upon what I -hope- is a rock. It is a withered, dead thing.

If you yet live, my companion of The Way, perhaps we might make your dream yet live.

I am at the Crone, waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

In Frederick's name,

Brother Jones.

I live, but the man I was is dead. Escape seems almost like a futile dream to me these days. I went back to the place I thought heralded the beginning of something special for me, and there was ought but sand and blood left. I know more than a man should, but what use is it anymore when the people you speak to are more concerned with keeping the towns existing in its beleaguered state.

Everything i've affixed my name to has met a grisly end. My friends. My enemies. You don't want to know me.

Signed,

Casimir Grand