Letter Contents
To whomever reads this in the name of friendship, memory, or simple mercy—
I pray it finds those who remember us — who remember him — before the sword swallows everything. You knew him once as Deimos Allencast III, King of Stolen Skunk Water. You would not know him now. His laughter is gone, his eyes are the color of forged iron, and his words are the words of an age long buried. Ovinrbaane speaks through him; the blade is the kingdom now.
The transformation began as whispers — decrees written in archaic script, the sudden executions of “traitors” who hesitated in their vows. When the priests of Erastil were forced to offer their faith in blood, I knew the man was no longer at the throne. The warlord Armag Reborn sits in his place, and the Stolenlands bend the knee or burn.
Yet not all bowed.
When the banners changed, Bebrudd hung up his ballons and gathered what loyal soldiers he could — veterans, farmers, even the old Watch of Varnhold.
We call ourselves the True Skunkwater— not out of pride, but remembrance. We fight for what this realm was meant to be: a haven for the free, not a forge for a god of war reborn.
Armag’s reach grows daily. He has reforged the Kellid tribes into his “Steel Host.” His champions ride nightmares black as oil and carry relics of the Tiger Lords.
Yet there are still pockets of defiance — old druids in the Narlmarches, riverfolk who smuggle food past his blockades, and a few brave souls within the capital who risk everything to send us word.
Bebrudd’s sword arm grows weaker each winter, but his will remains iron. He says if Deimos’s body cannot be freed, then the curse must be killed where it stands.
If this letter finds you, we may not survive the year, but the story must.
By my hand, Amelia, Servant of the True Skunkwater