[Royal Guard] Unto Vorfon Branth ul-Alfrith Truxten, Lord Privy Seal of Southern Arangoth... (Banner SL)

[JD]

UNTO VORFON BRANTH UL-ALFRITH TRUXTEN, LORD PRIVY SEAL OF SOUTHERN ARANGOTH:

Cousin,

    Now that you're titled, I don't think I'll ever be able to write to you
without giggling, O My Lord Privy Seal! It's all I can do not to add a
second V to your title and make you the Lord Outhouse Seal of Southern
Arangoth. But you are kin and I know that a dunderhead, particularly one as
tall as yourself, is an easy target for ridicule and probably draws enough
fire without help from me.
    In case you haven't already noticed, I'm in a buoyant humor.
    I've grown a beard, lost five stone, and am pleasantly salty. My
backside remains sore from the arrow gifted me by our bandit friends at
Sarla, but it's prven to be a blessing, for I've spent more time on my feet
in the past six weeks than I have in the past three years. Yes, my bones
rattle and my muscles burn at the end of the day, but I sleep as I haven't
slept in ages, as sound as the cool slab of stone I've taken to unrolling my
mat on each night. Menxvan help me, cousin, but I don't think I could be
happier. I suppose I shouldn't be, but I am. This is war, even if a small
one--a serious business that has cost many lives and will likely cost many
more. I remind myself of this daily, yet it hasn't curtailed my enthusiasm.
I feel as though I live more here in a single day here than I do in a year
in Drache. I also can't help but think the role I play here more important
than the one I play back in the city. Given my druthers, I'd happily trade
my robes for armor. But perhaps not. Perhaps I'm just getting old and
hankering for my youth. I have such fond memories of my time under the
banners, you know.
    But I know those aren't the banners you're interested in, so I'll stop
rambling and start reporting.
    We've taken Valkthres, but at considerable cost. Approximately fifteen
percent of the force we marched up from Parmi are dead or wounded to the
point of being unable to fight. The women, children, and elderly of
Valkthres have been evacuated to Parmi along with our dead and wounded.
We've garrisoned Parmi with a force sufficient to protect its inhabitants
and insure the integrity of the Sarla-Parmi and Parmi-Valkthres roads. The
rest of our force is here in Valkthres, which we've fortified as best we
can. Our supplies are adequate and morale is good.
    As best we can tell, the bandits have retreated to a fortified camp
several miles to the north of us or across the river to Valktokat. The
fortified camp is host to more "broken man" banners. Thanks to Vorfons Pate,
Longfellow and Voronwe (a Drachean undertaker and his friends whose boat
capsized upriver and who spent a harrowing night in the catacombs of
Valkthres), we now know the bandits' banners are part of some sort of ritual
to raise the dead. This would explain the disappearance of the enemy's dead
after the battle for Valkthres as well as our scouts' reports of zombie
activity--shades of the Mist War. I estimate the bandits' numbers at
slightly greater than our own, perhaps fifteen or twenty percent. More if
they've raised all their dead, though this possibility is less worrisome for
the fact that we now know how to destroy them. Having lost Valkthres and
faced with professional soldiers, I think it likely that the living enemy's
morale is low. Those who still fight are fighting because they fear their
commanders more than they fear us. That is my estimate.
    We intend to move against the bandits sometime within the next
forty-eight hours. Vorfon Aginor will command the majority of our force and
move north against the enemy camp while I and a handful of Watch and
ex-Watch will cross the river and move against Valktokat, which--Menxvan
willing--I will take quickly and secure before again recrossing the river
and making an end-run for the enemy camp, but we shall see how it plays.
I've yet to soldier in a battle that went completely as planned.
    So there you have it, cousin. That's the shape of things. So go tell it
to our *Iron Maiden and wish me Menxvan's light, for my candle is guttering
and my mat calls me to sleep.

    Sincerely,
    Abraxas ul-Bralk Caros
    24. VII. 474.


*Iron Maiden - A play on the name of the Sithire, Nisa ul-Alathar Folvati.
Folvati means "of iron."


--JD