First Degree Purrder [Archive]

Jacksonby

02-01-15, 07:54 AM

My Dear Asurel,

It has been three summers since I saw you last, but the butterflies and madrigals never leave my thoughts. Your smile, perfect, your heart so true. I am sorry I had to leave. I am sorry I could not overcome the hatred of your father. He cannot see me for who I can be, and you for the woman of the world you are.

I am in Alerar, where the towers rise tall to the midnight sky. Smoke plumes and self-loathing are the badges of the people here, far removed from the townships we grew up in. At least there we remembered where we came from. At least there, we did not see ourselves as better than our kin. War is the word most whispered in the streets of Ettermire. Though I do my best to keep the peace, soon, Raiaera will witness its brethren’s wrath.

If that happens, I will come home to you. I will do all I can to escape the city and my badge. I will not forget our promise. I will not forget the future we planned in the carvings we made in the tree.

Yours,

Sitar

Jacksonby leant into the candlelight and examined the face of his client. The withered lines on the elf’s face foretold of dark days ahead, but also of promise. A man torn atwain by love’s labour lost made for a challenge the likes of which the Autar never found in dealing with the Black Keep’s political stagnation. Here, on the streets of Alerar’s capital, he came alive.

“When did you send this letter, Sitar?”

Sitar leant back in his chair, deflated and teary eyed. For almost an hour, the two had exchanged trivialities and facts about the events leading up to the Autar’s visit to the elf’s home. The arrival of a government agent at the small holding in the industrial district had attracted quite the crowd, so much so the duo had closed all the blinds in the building, and double-locked the doors.

“Three weeks ago, or thereabouts.” He counter something out with his fingers. “Yes. Before the parade.”

The parade in spring was a high society affair that took up much of Aleraran high society’s time. Months in advance, the invitees would prepare for their titular moment of fame on the catwalk into the Grand Ball Room. Even as a dark elf, Jacksonby had never quite come to understand the important of frilly dresses and being recorded in image by the dab hand portrait peddlers.

“Have you heard anything from your betrothed at all?”

Restless set in and Jacksonby picked up on a lie the moment the dark elf finished his reply.

“No. Nothing.”

“Are you certain?” The Celfling raised an eyebrow as best he could. Beneath the bushel of far, it was difficult to tell where mirth began and forehead ended. “It is important you try to remember every little detail, Sitar.” He leant closer still. “Her life very much depends on it.”