Ragged urchins distribute a flowery, condescending missive.
Lords, Ladies, and Urchins of the Court,
May this letter find you well, well-to-do Wellborn and ne'er-do-well alike. Your beloved Comtesse, the delectable Olympe d'Averne, has so ached for your well-being in present circumstances. And what lurid circumstances they are, for let it never be said that life in Ephia's Well is dull. Where else might you find the Whites to be Golds, the Golds to be Purples, and the Purples to be Whites? Oh, you poor, sweet little ragamuffins, what are you to do? Your heroes are dead, your city is full of dust and muck, and your politicians are all buffoons. Old Groknak Sam has finally roused from his nap and declared his candidacy, trying and failing to shake the lethargy of a bellyful of Rose-red blood and a nose full of the heady scent of failure. If only he'd cut the mizzar from his diet and supplemented it with scorch, he might have filled the treasury with the same vim and vigor with which Zaniah emptied it. But we shouldn't term our dear bookworm a spendthrift, after all, he refused to reimburse that terrifying Twindari, Hekatomb, for the cost of his funeral candles amid the ceremony he commissioned.
We do have to thank him, however. Not for winning the war, which he spent cowering from in his tent with a fancy suit of armor which surely could have provided our boys and girls with many Wajeebs or waters, no, nor for ending the Wyrm cult in the city, which has only engaged in grander and more overt acts of terror since his limp-wristed prohibition. No, but we must thank him for lifting our spirits, for certainly the campaign to re-elect Sleepy Saenus will bring tears to our eyes and laughter to our long-parched lips. I must question, mind you, if such a thing is truly in keeping with the sobriety of the Long Mourning? Nevertheless, Marcellus is quite the comedian, so much so that the orc'ah saw fit to reward his antics with such a sweet, hand-woven tapestry of levity. Surely its sight filled our tired warriors with resolve, and taught the fearsome Vizier of Kha'esh the great power of the Sultan's favorite outpost. A toast to good humor.
Not everyone can have such cheerful comedic chops, however, and as we wrinkle our noses we look to the city's own dung heap. No, no, not Hassan's shit-shop, but the League of Gold who represents him. I had one of my strapping porters provide me with the register and, after sorting through all the dead people, brookers, exiles, necromancers, thieves, charlatans, traitors, found very few names left indeed. I am rather soft at heart, so I will offer the members of the Gold League my advice: leave. There are two sorts of people there, those who work and those who win. You think the League will elevate you to success? You think they care about work? Their own pet scribe, al-Samar, hiked license fees as an influx of new merchants and laborers entered the city. Extorting hard-working merchants and adventurers to fill her own pockets, plus pay for Marcellus to buy himself another banner or acid-spitting suit of armor, a regular Shane Gallows you might say. Not to mention Qari buying himself the Legateship and joining hands with Marcellus to laugh out of the Chamber of Rule any suggestion of providing for or preparing non-Accorded fighters.
Ah, but look at me, I've forgotten to talk about who they might run... oh, who are they going to run, again? Some newspaper writer? One of Qari's Baz'eeli buddies? Fresh off the ashsail, you say? Well, that's certainly compelling. The only way he could become a stronger candidate is if he immediately set about publishing libelous screeds insulting the dignity of the Well, the Banda Rossa, Astronomers, and about every other beleaguered and bleeding group in the city. Wouldn't that be quaint? I jest, of course, for I would never mean to upset Qari or his foreign friends, lest I go the way of dear Gers Geiger and find myself stabbed thrice in the back, then immolated in a convenient explosion. Perhaps I erred in stating that the Gold League was without comedy, it is certainly funny to watch their members clap like trained seals as their League is slowly turned into the League of Purple, but with more murders.
And our old White League. They're going to run some little schoolboy moderate, ready to get into heated courtly debates with Golds and Purples and write love poems for the Sultan. What more is there to say? The man who sabotaged Echemmon, who confounded Estellise, who so limply and uselessly slung invective, and writes such tedious little recipes. Such things bore the people, my people, my dears, and what we need is decisive action. Dear Little Domhnall is too mild of manners for my taste. I can't rightly roast him too harshly, as he did Alexandria Sayburgh or our friend Ays, for I fear he would dissolve into the aether.
Yet we of the Marquis' Court are Lily Leaguers to the bone. Even if we cannot have our sainted Aubrey Domergue, we know our place in this most tedious of races. I do hope we might speak again soon, my sweet poppets, for it has been too long since the people have enjoyed my delicious company,
Yours, truly and beloved,
The Comtesse d'Averne
Lords, Ladies, and Urchins of the Court,
May this letter find you well, well-to-do Wellborn and ne'er-do-well alike. Your beloved Comtesse, the delectable Olympe d'Averne, has so ached for your well-being in present circumstances. And what lurid circumstances they are, for let it never be said that life in Ephia's Well is dull. Where else might you find the Whites to be Golds, the Golds to be Purples, and the Purples to be Whites? Oh, you poor, sweet little ragamuffins, what are you to do? Your heroes are dead, your city is full of dust and muck, and your politicians are all buffoons. Old Groknak Sam has finally roused from his nap and declared his candidacy, trying and failing to shake the lethargy of a bellyful of Rose-red blood and a nose full of the heady scent of failure. If only he'd cut the mizzar from his diet and supplemented it with scorch, he might have filled the treasury with the same vim and vigor with which Zaniah emptied it. But we shouldn't term our dear bookworm a spendthrift, after all, he refused to reimburse that terrifying Twindari, Hekatomb, for the cost of his funeral candles amid the ceremony he commissioned.
We do have to thank him, however. Not for winning the war, which he spent cowering from in his tent with a fancy suit of armor which surely could have provided our boys and girls with many Wajeebs or waters, no, nor for ending the Wyrm cult in the city, which has only engaged in grander and more overt acts of terror since his limp-wristed prohibition. No, but we must thank him for lifting our spirits, for certainly the campaign to re-elect Sleepy Saenus will bring tears to our eyes and laughter to our long-parched lips. I must question, mind you, if such a thing is truly in keeping with the sobriety of the Long Mourning? Nevertheless, Marcellus is quite the comedian, so much so that the orc'ah saw fit to reward his antics with such a sweet, hand-woven tapestry of levity. Surely its sight filled our tired warriors with resolve, and taught the fearsome Vizier of Kha'esh the great power of the Sultan's favorite outpost. A toast to good humor.
Not everyone can have such cheerful comedic chops, however, and as we wrinkle our noses we look to the city's own dung heap. No, no, not Hassan's shit-shop, but the League of Gold who represents him. I had one of my strapping porters provide me with the register and, after sorting through all the dead people, brookers, exiles, necromancers, thieves, charlatans, traitors, found very few names left indeed. I am rather soft at heart, so I will offer the members of the Gold League my advice: leave. There are two sorts of people there, those who work and those who win. You think the League will elevate you to success? You think they care about work? Their own pet scribe, al-Samar, hiked license fees as an influx of new merchants and laborers entered the city. Extorting hard-working merchants and adventurers to fill her own pockets, plus pay for Marcellus to buy himself another banner or acid-spitting suit of armor, a regular Shane Gallows you might say. Not to mention Qari buying himself the Legateship and joining hands with Marcellus to laugh out of the Chamber of Rule any suggestion of providing for or preparing non-Accorded fighters.
Ah, but look at me, I've forgotten to talk about who they might run... oh, who are they going to run, again? Some newspaper writer? One of Qari's Baz'eeli buddies? Fresh off the ashsail, you say? Well, that's certainly compelling. The only way he could become a stronger candidate is if he immediately set about publishing libelous screeds insulting the dignity of the Well, the Banda Rossa, Astronomers, and about every other beleaguered and bleeding group in the city. Wouldn't that be quaint? I jest, of course, for I would never mean to upset Qari or his foreign friends, lest I go the way of dear Gers Geiger and find myself stabbed thrice in the back, then immolated in a convenient explosion. Perhaps I erred in stating that the Gold League was without comedy, it is certainly funny to watch their members clap like trained seals as their League is slowly turned into the League of Purple, but with more murders.
And our old White League. They're going to run some little schoolboy moderate, ready to get into heated courtly debates with Golds and Purples and write love poems for the Sultan. What more is there to say? The man who sabotaged Echemmon, who confounded Estellise, who so limply and uselessly slung invective, and writes such tedious little recipes. Such things bore the people, my people, my dears, and what we need is decisive action. Dear Little Domhnall is too mild of manners for my taste. I can't rightly roast him too harshly, as he did Alexandria Sayburgh or our friend Ays, for I fear he would dissolve into the aether.
Yet we of the Marquis' Court are Lily Leaguers to the bone. Even if we cannot have our sainted Aubrey Domergue, we know our place in this most tedious of races. I do hope we might speak again soon, my sweet poppets, for it has been too long since the people have enjoyed my delicious company,
Yours, truly and beloved,
The Comtesse d'Averne