A letter to the Palatial Pyramid [Domhnall]

[Don Nadie]

[A little letter arrives to the Palatial Pyramid.]

Domhnall,

Hope you're enduring the campaign. I have found myself overly busy with some comissions (a few translations of some ancient nonsense for a wealthy Baz'eeli widow - but it pays the rent).

I would hope to talk, if you have a chance, before the election ends.

Yours,

Alejandro

[Erudiche]

Alejandro,

I would love to take you up on such a request, should time permit us. The translations are less sweet, I confess, than their commission. I wonder what the old widow sees in these things.

Yours,
Domhnall

[Don Nadie]

Domhnall,

It would seem circumstances conspired against us meeting. The cursed comission has been, I fear, eating too much of my time, not that the hours I keep have ever been conductive to our chats. I would still hope for a chance to speak, now that you have been re-elected. There are things which are best conveyed in person.

The widow's comission would be amussing if it wasn't so sad - she seeks proof of ther House's noble descend, so as to snub her neighbours... Which means I am reading through the miserly intrigues of a thousand different monsters. It is time consumming, and often boring, though punctuated by odd moments of tragedy.

Work, and the comings and goings of the last election have me in something of a melancholic mood, day-dreaming of the rhyme of the waves, the kiss of the sun, and boats to distant shores. Were that one could fly off into the clouds. I guess I technically can, by transforming into a seagull. But the few minutes such magics last are certainly not enough to escape the Well, much less traverse de Sea of Pearls towards some yet-uncharted island of peace and blooming flowers. I am sure there must be one, somewhere. 

I hope your spirit remains high, after re-election. It was, from the sounds of it, hardly fought. Try to take care of yourself. I know you often don't... And I mislike it.

Yours,

Alejandro

[Erudiche]

Alejandro,

It's always like this with the wealthy, I find. A despicable people.

I too am melancholy. The election has sapped me of much of my vital energy. I am unsure if I have the strength to see this undertaking to its conclusion, but I shall do so anyway.

Yours,
Domhnall

[Don Nadie]

[The letter is read, leaving Alejandro pondering for a long, long while. A response, when it arrives, stinks of mizzar.]

Domhnall,

It pains me to hear you find yourself so weary. It is, truly, the last thing I want for you.

On this regard, Ashley has told me that Ibn Ghalish robbed me a dramatic reveal. I suppose it is only fair - I did steal his white-scarved look, and wore it better. I hope you know it was always my intention to tell you... We just haven't coincided.  She also said you knew the reason. I suppose I am not subtle in my concerns. Or, rather, you know me well enough, by now.

But I realize this all is something best to be discussed in person. If you wish to. A letter is likely only to make us both feel more melancholic.

To change onto nicer topics, I visited Il Modo with doña Sofia. A beautiful city - I was not aware cities could be that big! The artistry in that place is astonishing, the Dome of Man brought tears to my eyes. Sadly, there was no time for a diplomatic opening, but at least I gifted the city one of my Hidden Poems. I also brought you some eel-oil. Figured you might have run out of what you brought.

I shall return now to my work. I send you, however, my next Hidden Poem. I still haven't decided where to place it...

Be strong.  And make sure to find respite and joy, still. There's no selfishness in taking care of yourself, too...

Yours,

Alejandro

[A sonnet is enclosed in the same folder]

The Heron

THE HERON

The Heron soared through vastness far,
and came to rest, onto this roof:
in him, we saw the Heaven's proof
that greed is not all that we are.

And yet, a bird is meant to fly
and rests uneasy on solid land:
his limbs grow weary with the sand,
whose cruelties he can't all defy.

Made symbol now the Heron slaves
to spare us all what Ash springs:
inhuman, land, serves best for graves.

Forfeit us all, spread your wings!
Ride, Heron fair, over the waves:
before your heart no longer sings.

[close]

[Erudiche]

Alejandro,

I have taken somewhat ill. When I am well, I would like to speak, for there is much to discuss. Thank you for the poem. Your work is, as ever, exquisite.

Yours,
Domhnall

P.S. I dare say I will never run out of eel oil. I hope your trip to Il Modo was better than mine.