A decaying scroll, blighted
Posted: Thu Nov 08, 2018 8:46 pm
The scroll is delivered by a raven so clearly undead that it is a wonder that enough feathers remain to hold the avian messenger aloft. Deposited down the mail chute of High Inquisitor Grimfire's hidden grotto, the scroll tumbles into his awaiting inbox while barely maintaining its structural integrity. Waxen seal broken and letter unfurled, it reads so:
To the liaison of The Grim,
Tracking the latest movement of your garrison was far more taxing than catching word of your deeds. The Northern Kingdoms have long borne the mark of The Grim's wrath. In life, I regretted their wounds - now, I begin to see their hidden logic.
What is the use of a Crown if it only crushes those who loyally give it loft? A king of rats and shackles, to be certain.
I would speak with the master of your ways, to find a new path through this darkness that has been visited upon me. The Mandate rings true to the nature of my being, and my kin. As wyvern does not sit idly by in its nest when she knows another creeps into her territory, so too can I not find fault with the mother your people call the Banshee Queen.
Find me among the ramparts of ruined Alterac. There we might agree upon terms mutual to our own packs.
Truthfully yours,
Aschwin Blackmoore
To the liaison of The Grim,
Tracking the latest movement of your garrison was far more taxing than catching word of your deeds. The Northern Kingdoms have long borne the mark of The Grim's wrath. In life, I regretted their wounds - now, I begin to see their hidden logic.
What is the use of a Crown if it only crushes those who loyally give it loft? A king of rats and shackles, to be certain.
I would speak with the master of your ways, to find a new path through this darkness that has been visited upon me. The Mandate rings true to the nature of my being, and my kin. As wyvern does not sit idly by in its nest when she knows another creeps into her territory, so too can I not find fault with the mother your people call the Banshee Queen.
Find me among the ramparts of ruined Alterac. There we might agree upon terms mutual to our own packs.
Truthfully yours,
Aschwin Blackmoore