Letter Contents
General Bebrudd,
It falls to me, with heavy quill and heavier heart, to convey the present state of that young southern realm once known to you as the Stolen Skunk Water.
Its former lord, King Deimos Allencast III, has — by all reliable accounts — vanished beneath the armor and fury of a different name. The people now call him Armag Reborn, and he has taken the title Warlord Eternal of the Skunkwater.
The transformation was slow at first. Those closest to the crown spoke of strange rituals, sleepless nights, and the glint of battle-madness behind courtly smiles. Then came the decrees:
All nobles and advisors were ordered to swear oaths of blood and loyalty “to the tribe of steel.”
The temples were rededicated to Gorum; even Erastil’s humble priests now bear weapons at their belts.
Diplomats from Restov and Mivon were expelled, their envoys branded “false tongues.”
Within half a year, the borders were sealed. The king’s visage changed — not merely by age or scar, but by memory made flesh. His speech grew archaic, his laughter rare. He no longer recognized his own banners, yet marched under them all the same.
Now, the once-fertile heartlands are garrisoned by fanatics who believe they live in the final age before conquest. To them, every neighbor is an enemy to be tested by fire. The cities still function — barely — under the iron law of his generals. But trade has withered, and the crown’s coffers swell not with gold but with weapons.