Letter to Jarlaxle Baenre

My dear Lord Baenre, Captain Zord, or Mr Mystere (whatever you are calling yourself now, really),
 
I was surprised to hear of your recent departure from Waterdeep. I was hoping to see you beforehand - share a drink, discuss things in your wonderful armchairs, meet each other on equal ground. Whatever else friends do. I’m sure that the Open Lord would understand had you stuck around to discuss. Surely returning the gold wasn’t your only plan to win her favour? I’d imagine a man of such wit and foresight as yourself would have backup plan after backup plan.
 
Then again, we had our fun. As much as it cost me, I did enjoy the challenge you had posed. A man like you tends to cast a far shadow. There is much power in a shadow; in the end, it is breath and shadow that makes us mortals. But shadow owes its birth to the sun - it was inevitable that you would be brought into the light of day.
 
Forgive my ramblings. These past days have been a chaotic blur of steel, sweat and snow, and the game that united us is coming to its grand conclusion. However, if there is one aspect of mine that lingers in your memory, I hope you remember I am no fool. I know what rash and lethal things a wounded pride can bring. So let this letter be less a taunt and more a warning: you will stay out of Waterdeep. You will leave the denizens of this city to their peace. And you will not lay a finger on my friends.
 
I have conquered the Lord of the Dead. I have evaded the fatal touch. And now the shadows dance around my fingertips. They bend to my will. In every shadow cast, in every corner the light does not touch, I may dwell. With every candle that snuffs out, when Lathander sleeps and Eilistraee begins her dance, I draw ever closer. Should you break from these demands, pray for the mercy of whatever gods you serve, for you will find none from me.
 
You have been warned.
 
The immortal defender of the City of Splendours,
Roscoe Greenbottle.