Let me say first that the fields of Elysia are bountiful and brimming with wheat. Around this time of year in Aftsummer the chaff makes mountains that scrape the clouds and tickle the cloud giants arses as they float lazily across the sky. The wheat fields smell of dough and rye, and right now it is all I can do to not moist my lips with water and seek out the bountiful fields of home.
Dear sirs, soldiers, and generals,
As you can see we are in almost stalemate of sorts between the two of us. The dragonkin have us on the north and east, and you capable fellows have us on the west. I should let you know that we have a good supply chain to the south from those blessed fields of Elysia, and we shouldn't be running out fresh food any time soon. Indeed, we probably will receive more and more as the weeks come. I wager you'll see several gray pillars rise into the clouds in the coming weeks as we bake bread and sweet pies and meat pies in the thousands of brick ovens around the city. We aren't and won't be hungry for a long time.
Now about the meat pies, they are about as good as they come. If you haven't seen or heard tale of it, let me tell you of the King's Reserve. It's a large forest inside the walls of the city where the king hunts as he pleases. This place is home to hundreds of gamefood such as deer, elk, squirrels, rabbits, and a pack of moose. These are carefully watched by some wizards and druids who ensure their survival. All this game, and more from the king's sheep farms, provide substantial meat for us all. As you can tell, the vellum I'm writing on is of sheepskin.
Sheep in the deadlands are remarkable, aren't they? Wonderfully sincere and good wooled. Their coats are like fluffy clouds and shearing is easy. All that wool goes into spinning, I reckon. Just like here, the sheep stand still for shearing if you give them sticky straw to keep their jaws occupied. Those wonderful creatures just stand and chew and chew and stand while you shave them. We used to use the wool for strong threads back home and use those threads to trip our grandpa when we were kids. He would yelp and trip and swear to the Sun Father he'd make us wish we were standing in "the Real Elysium." Me and my brothers would laugh until Father caught us and tanned our hides to match our sun-worn skin.
When this whole thing started to flare up about ten years ago or so, some bastard red dragon came by and burned our fields and home. My Father died in the fire and my kid brother. I wasn't even a man yet, and I hadn't gone through the chaffing yet, but I had to take my mother and grandfather and remaining brothers to Hlee. Once there, I sought out work. But everywhere was full to bursting with people. There was no jobs in Hlee, and what's a country bumpkin to do without a proper education or magical fortitude? Of course, I joined the army.
I joined at just the right time for the first of the dragonkin attacks occurred, burning some of the city. Thankfully, magicians and whoever used their water spells to calm most of the inferno, but many could not. Even worse when a black dragon descended upon us and its acid blew through my armor and the faces of my comrades. Too quickly their faces were like overdone roast falling off the bone. In my pain I fell and saw the dragon land. A brave soul tried to reason with it. The dragon laughed and responded with "And who are you to command me?" before snorting acid into his face. He was blind for the rest of life.
I know the power of these dragonkin. Just a handful of dragons could completely swipe the this blasted city off this plateau. They won't, but they absolutely could. I have good ears, and I've heard talks among the leaders about some kind of parlay or surrender. I think this would be the best and most reasonable. Hlee has always stood as the bulwark against the shifting and rising and fierce Deadlands. If Hlee goes then whatever chance Evoria has is slim to none. Surrender shouldn't be out of the question. Why not save as many lives as possible? Lose a city but save a fledgling country? It just makes sense.
Truth be told, I'm tired and wish to go home. My body is weak from the constant stress of waiting for a dragon to descend, or fear of seeing those horns and split spears bouncing and glistening in the sun marching toward us. All I want is to go back to Elysia fields, back to my home. But the tryanical dragons have taken that resolve from me. I wish to put my feet up on the stool by the fire, feel the warmth work up my toes to my legs and body. I wish to eat Mother's soup in bowls of bread. I wish to have my home back. But I cannot.
If you caught on to my hinting of knowing the sheep of the Deadlands well it's because I've been. My father once took me on a trip to trade of wheat to some desert lord. I was thrilled to explore a new environment of red cliffs and cracked, dry ground where sparse brush clung to life. After a couple weeks travel we meet the lord and traded accordingly. That night my father drank too much and didn't see me wander off to find some local legends of gold piles for the taking. I thought to impress my dad with a casket full of gold. I needn't tell you I got lost. For two days I wandered before the lord saw me and carried me back to my father. He gave me his own waterskin, telling me to keep it for "a good story and laugh when you grow up." I've never been able to repay him. Such love abounded in that camp and in the hearts of the delfir.
I cannot help but think... do you know him? Could you possibly be him? I've heard that all the delfir lords were called upon, nay, commanded to come. Could you be him? The love and warmth that I felt, I wonder, if I were to stumble into your camp right now, in a daze, as a boy, would you show me that same kindness, sirs? If I were out of water on the battlefields tomorrow or the next day or the next day, would you lend me your waterskin to slake my thirst? Would you allow me to help you shear the woold off the sheep to make threads to perhaps trip the old, peppery dogs of the war camps, and giggle as boys as we ran off, fearing the wrath of our captain? Would you let me into your home, me, who has none?
I am not a very sentimental person, but as I said I cannot help but wonder. I am neding this letter before it exceeds a reasonable length. I apologize for any errors or mistranslations, I'm not a scholar just a humble, homeless warrior who is fighting for his life against the dragon overlords of the desert realm. I will remember the true enemy. Will you?
(Records show the the delfir left the note as well as a full waterskin at the site of their camps.)
Comments