Dear Palamon

[Tree]

A letter is left on the bar for Palamon at the Krak, neatly folded with some smudges of dirt and blood on the page

[hide]

Dearest Palamon,

Dry skin, cracked lips and dying of thirst we have all started a new life after finding our way through the sandstorm and into this new city Ephia's Well we now live.

But echos of our old life remain, what was your life like prior to coming here?

Were you the pillar of strength and integrity you are today? I have seen you fight back many demons with gleeming sword blessed by the Mother in hand and trumpet in the other.

Silver armour and white cloak twinkling in the moonlight but the question remains; were you always like this or did you find religion in the desert, did your Mother or Father teach you the ways of nobility and chivalry if so a true blessing?

I myself come from nothing I was raised in a orphanage prior to the Ringfall it was truely a miserable experience not a soul to care for me, no mother - no father, nothing.

After leaving the orphanage at the age of 16 I lived a fairly boring life doing odd jobs here and there for the next few years I didnt really exist or do anything of note, I have the feeling your experiance was quite different.

Jumping forward a few years to the event that defined a lot of our existance - The Ringfall.

Having no one it was not uncommon for me to be alone, I wandered the wastes barely surviving until one day, I came across a group of degenerates and lunatics, or so I thought.

Being desperate myself, hungry and thirsty I decided I would throw my hat in with these men, so to speak. They spoke of the divinity of flesh, the boons gained from consuming a mans heart for courage - a mans brain for intelligence and drinking a mans blood for his vigour.

I was skeptical at first but having nothing and no one and likely on the brink of death from dehydration and starvation I decided to indulge and oh what a treat it was I initially did not like it the taste of rust and a old coin in your mouth is a strange one but in time it is not so bad and you even begin to enjoy it.

After the first taste of meat and the first sip of crimson my powers swelled - the more I ate the more intelligent, charismatic, strong and hearty I became. Alas - I ramble.

I write you this letter in admiration of you and to confess my undying hunger to one day feast on you. Will it ever happen? It seems unlikely as I am positive you could crush me under heel like a gnat. Alas a man can dream.

Keep doing what you're doing - a beacon of hope in this bleak desert for the slack jawed locals to admire and hold onto hope. While you do that I lurk amongst you, watching and waiting for my next meal. Will it be you? Or will it be some vagabond I find alone and desperate.

I have enclosed a small hunk of meat for you to sample. Will you try it?

With love,
The Butcher.

[/hide]

A small, thin parcel is wrapped inside the letter

[hide]

A small piece of dried meat is enclosed, one could eat the meat it if they wished

[/hide]

[mazzz]

[A parchment adorned with a crimson wax-seal and fantastical embellishments and carrying with it a flowery-scent lies a-waiting wherever its predecessor first sat]

[hide=Fancy Letter]Filthy, detestable cretin of the wastes's backside!

I must say, your horrid letter took me quite by surprise. Why, the shock had me reminisce of T'Chun's roving madmen of yesteryears long since past, or the oafs that brought the fall of the Eighty-Eighth diocese. Ah, life is truly a Wheel, I must proclaim my faith once more-- it spins and spins in a cycle; the scullion dung-eaters such as yourself shall forever appear from the burrows like frenzied rodents with nary a thought in their small, utterly tiny brain. I wager, foul sir, that if it were for the Rat-Catchers' guild, they'd have snatched you from your rotten behind and tossed you into a pit with the rest of your comrades. Alas, it seems the rat has now become a worm, and the reviled cultist a droll cannibal. How the times do change, if ever in a cycle; with adjustments from the spokes of the wheel.

I shall say that if you were a fair and noble maiden the prospect of feasting upon my most gallant hunk of meat would not be out of reach. Alas, my goodman, I prefer fairer company! Such woe for you, and as I am sure, many others about the Disc. Now, onto the most exciting bit of literature you've no doubt had the pleasure of beholding since your birth. My life's memoir. Unfortunately, I've better business to go about than wax poetic to a drooling cannibal, so it shall be brief!

I once was a pageboy of small means. My father a carpenter, and my mother a nurse. In the Eighty-Eighth diocese. At a young age I saw them rot and wilt away from the plague, my valiant mother's efforts leading to her untimely doom. One of the survivors of that great Sanctis Order, my mentor Sir Tancrede d'Beaumont, took me under his wing to teach me, a meagre freedman's boy, the ways of swordplay and all things chivalric. I was much the riotous lad in those days, my boyhood consisting largely of disobedience, whippings, and hectic demands.

My superior at the time, the Squire Gilles Guilbert, was much the source of affection, and had secretly took to teaching me the ways of calligraphy and reading- much to my master's displeasure. Those years were hard, truly so, exiles from a land bereft of both King's love- that damnable git what tossed away our fealty- and of its own dignity. I had never much cared for the way of Knights. What good did they do for us, having seen the horrors of the Eighty-Eighth and what became of my mother? My craven father ran away to the Steadings afar, prostrating himself to some ungainly, bulbous laird there no doubt, I cared little for that man.

This all changed with the coming of the Cinquefoil Rose. I was a young lad then, but even I saw it from the rear of their charge- creeping like the mischievous young chap I was at the time. How they dashed away the plague's minions, how they cleansed the land and ended that rotten curse. It was then that I transformed, as my former homeland did. From a corrupt boy with little care for the good of one's word and responsibility, to a darling servant. No Small God of the Ninety-Nine or beyond had saved us that day. It was the will of man and their efforts 'gainst what was foul that did.

Long after the Ring-Fall, my master and I wandered. Horrors emerged beyond our comprehension. The walls that kept us trapped, akin a womb now became our tomb in their absence. Lizards came to retake what was once theirs, cultists such as yourself crept from the crevices of the Devil's nether-regions. I had never been much to give interest to my master's drillings and teachings, but that day I would have died if not for his incessant shouting and correcting of how to hold a shield and swing a sword. B'aara bless that man. He was a harsh teacher, but there goes not a day without the world itself weeping at his death. Rest his soul.

Many years after, and it was all a blur, I was a young lad no longer. Guilbert was long dead and I had assumed his position in our makeshift band, and we were but five leagues away from Ephia's Well. Alas, fate was cruel to us, and my good master returned to B'aara's arms that day, that Arch-Daemon thirst having murdered him. I took his ring and oath, and though I shall never be so worthy as to take his title and name, I live on with his memory.

If you end up publishing this summarized version of my life's tale, do make certain to send a portion of the profits to an order dedicated to purging the world of cannibals and their rancid feastings. It shall bring me much joy. And if you, in your folly, realize the wrongdoings of your cannibalism, then merely send for me a letter with your true identity and we shall arrange for a ceremony to absolve you of your horrific deeds. I do partake in the myth of a second, or even third chance at times- hopeless optimist that I am.

- Palamon of Saint-Allard
The White-Hare, Master Poet, Playwright, Hospitaller, Faithful B'aarat, Hero-Aspirant

P.S. No, I will not eat your meat, you git.[/hide]




[hide=Plain Text Alternative]Filthy, detestable cretin of the wastes's backside!

I must say, your horrid letter took me quite by surprise. Why, the shock had me reminisce of T'Chun's roving madmen of yesteryears long since past, or the oafs that brought the fall of the Eighty-Eighth diocese. Ah, life is truly a Wheel, I must proclaim my faith once more-- it spins and spins in a cycle; the scullion dung-eaters such as yourself shall forever appear from the burrows like frenzied rodents with nary a thought in their small, utterly tiny brain. I wager, foul sir, that if it were for the Rat-Catchers' guild, they'd have snatched you from your rotten behind and tossed you into a pit with the rest of your comrades. Alas, it seems the rat has now become a worm, and the reviled cultist a droll cannibal. How the times do change, if ever in a cycle; with adjustments from the spokes of the wheel.

I shall say that if you were a fair and noble maiden the prospect of feasting upon my most gallant hunk of meat would not be out of reach. Alas, my goodman, I prefer fairer company! Such woe for you, and as I am sure, many others about the Disc. Now, onto the most exciting bit of literature you've no doubt had the pleasure of beholding since your birth. My life's memoir. Unfortunately, I've better business to go about than wax poetic to a drooling cannibal, so it shall be brief!

I once was a pageboy of small means. My father a carpenter, and my mother a nurse. In the Eighty-Eighth diocese. At a young age I saw them rot and wilt away from the plague, my valiant mother's efforts leading to her untimely doom. One of the survivors of that great Sanctis Order, my mentor Sir Tancrede d'Beaumont, took me under his wing to teach me, a meagre freedman's boy, the ways of swordplay and all things chivalric. I was much the riotous lad in those days, my boyhood consisting largely of disobedience, whippings, and hectic demands.

My superior at the time, the Squire Gilles Guilbert, was much the source of affection, and had secretly took to teaching me the ways of calligraphy and reading- much to my master's displeasure. Those years were hard, truly so, exiles from a land bereft of both King's love- that damnable git what tossed away our fealty- and of its own dignity. I had never much cared for the way of Knights. What good did they do for us, having seen the horrors of the Eighty-Eighth and what became of my mother? My craven father ran away to the Steadings afar, prostrating himself to some ungainly, bulbous laird there no doubt, I cared little for that man.

This all changed with the coming of the Cinquefoil Rose. I was a young lad then, but even I saw it from the rear of their charge- creeping like the mischievous young chap I was at the time. How they dashed away the plague's minions, how they cleansed the land and ended that rotten curse. It was then that I transformed, as my former homeland did. From a corrupt boy with little care for the good of one's word and responsibility, to a darling servant. No Small God of the Ninety-Nine or beyond had saved us that day. It was the will of man and their efforts 'gainst what was foul that did.

Long after the Ring-Fall, my master and I wandered. Horrors emerged beyond our comprehension. The walls that kept us trapped, akin a womb now became our tomb in their absence. Lizards came to retake what was once theirs, cultists such as yourself crept from the crevices of the Devil's nether-regions. I had never been much to give interest to my master's drillings and teachings, but that day I would have died if not for his incessant shouting and correcting of how to hold a shield and swing a sword. B'aara bless that man. He was a harsh teacher, but there goes not a day without the world itself weeping at his death. Rest his soul.

Many years after, and it was all a blur, I was a young lad no longer. Guilbert was long dead and I had assumed his position in our makeshift band, and we were but five leagues away from Ephia's Well. Alas, fate was cruel to us, and my good master returned to B'aara's arms that day, that Arch-Daemon thirst having murdered him. I took his ring and oath, and though I shall never be so worthy as to take his title and name, I live on with his memory.

If you end up publishing this summarized version of my life's tale, do make certain to send a portion of the profits to an order dedicated to purging the world of cannibals and their rancid feastings. It shall bring me much joy. And if you, in your folly, realize the wrongdoings of your cannibalism, then merely send for me a letter with your true identity and we shall arrange for a ceremony to absolve you of your horrific deeds. I do partake in the myth of a second, or even third chance at times- hopeless optimist that I am.[/gfont]

- Palamon of Saint-Allard
The White-Hare, Master Poet, Playwright, Hospitaller, Faithful B'aarat, Hero-Aspirant

P.S. No, I will not eat your meat, you git.[/hide]