An offer

Iphone76

Fax Machine
No meta game nerds
[!] A letter covered in coal dust was dropped onto the steps of the Anjyarr Palace, a small missive of a flower drawn across it the coal dust covering it over a smear from that of a birds talons making the outside blurred [!]

[!] The writing on it would be a mess, the author having changed and copied the handwriting of multiple people some recognizable as the hand-writing of the late Anne-Marie de Ruiter, and Arnoud I van Leuveren, while other parts the hand writing unrecognizable to any known figures yet the design seemingly changing as he wrote. [!]


Leader of Anjyarr, the stench of war never seems to leave your soiled nation and its stench causes most to discern you as uncivilized beats and savages. But I believe that you have greater thoughts behind your actions and believe in you as someone who pays back to others what he owes them. I offer to you two pieces of knowledge, I have what was stolen from you by Talia and I also carry the knowledge of where that insidious thing calls home, and even where that things loved ones may be found. If you want this knowledge announce to your people quickly a simple statement and keep it to this simple statement only that you will allow the trade of recourses into Anjyarr for two days in a weeks time from when you send that message. If you should make that known I will send a second letter with my conditional offer of purchase, should I see no such statement I shall cast your precious treasure to fire and watch as it is destroyed. I suspect that you will heed my words and make quick of your intentions.

[!] The letter would end no signature and the coal dust would begin to cover over the bottom just barely making the last sentence readable [!]

 
[!] Sig'Vyl exhales a slow stream of fragrant smoke, his eyes narrowing as he reads the filthy parchment. A flicker of disgust crosses his face. Without hesitation, he presses the letter to the burning coal of his hookah, watching as the fire hungrily devours the tainted words.
The ashes fall to the marble floor. Insignificant, just like the fool who penned them.


With a flick of his wrist, he waves away the remains, both of the letter and the pathetic whispers it carried. His thoughts do not linger. There is war to prepare for. [!]
 
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