Dearest Jebet;

Forgive the scrawling hand, the chaos of the circumstance does not permit greater care to such inessential matters. In truth, I am at a loss for words, I can hardly parse the thoughts crowding my head let alone the scribbles crawling from beneath my hand. In any case, I will attempt my damndest to convey the tragedy that is hung above us all, and hopefully, gods be willing, warn you of what is to come.

As we were just about done clearing out the gutters before Widdergrove palace, (how twee, how trivial, that all seems now!), the previously described campaigners of Shinap came to dispute with the equally fervent apostles of Carina - their clash seemed to overturn some aspect of civility their very spirits, for it was not long before they began to riot through the market square, no regard, no regard at all for all the labour and concert that had run thrumming through its numberless paths. And this on the festival of fallen heroes, no less! Thoroughly disturbed by the destruction, I began attempting to return the crowd to some semblance of reason and order - with some reluctance from the rioters, the discord subsided, (the Carinites more readily than those followers of Shinap). Yet as I turned from the narrowly avoided conflagration, a danger of even greater calamitousness hit me full force in the face.

Looming o'er the outer gate to Widdergrove castle, a strength of some twenty Gigans, each wearing war proudly, hideously razed into their bearing, demanding an immediate audience with the king. Yet even his royal majesty's attempt to mediate was met with scorn - the Gigan contingent gave the city but two hours to surrender before an attack upon the city was to be put into its awful, crushing motion.

Now you know that I understand little of war - perhaps I should have held onto the pulse of earthly rhythms more often than I floated through the otherworlds of mind and light. Yet even to myself this whole affair seems terribly suspect - a bright, impossible thunderclap rending through a cloudless sky, no rhyme, no reason, no harmony.

Gutters forgotten, our haphazard band was recalled to the castle, to be entrusted by the king himself an errand of warning to the allied town of Ringwood - how I regret that my first visit to this fabled fount of art needed be shadowed by such dire circumstance! I am both honored and shamed by the weight of the trust that the ruler placed upon us, and bowed beneath the burden of our seeming resemblance to the once-heroes of Widdergrove.

Worryingly, however, upon our departure from the city, a glance back struck me with an image of unfortunate familiarity - emblazoned upon the banner of one of the Gigan attackers, a pinned moth…

The journey itself - one misadventure after another. What should have been a prompt and straight path speeded by the frantic nature of the situation had coiled upon itself as if in contradiction to our goals. That said, even in the mire of misfortune that so beleaguered the day, I am heartened to say that the tyranny of war is not yet absolute - the dwarves, (or those chance met upon the road, at least), seem to be as worried by the developments as we.

Our eventual arrival in Ringwood was- odd. I suppose. That flavor of strangeness that shadows perfect peace, perfect harmony. Uncanny as a composition with no tension, a statue of perfect, dread proportion. The goodfolk there were going about their celebration of the fete, and even my most urgent cries of warning were treated as little more than an enhancement to the rejoicing. (That said, perhaps employing light magic in the conveyance of a dire portent was not ideal.) Though I did eventually manage to convince them, the oddity would only continue - while I was spitting omens like some mad prophet, my companions sought the aid of the sovereign of the town, who proved to be none other than Carina the Sculptor…

She was a lance of light made solid, a marble eidolon stepping off its plinth, sharper, more certain even than the disc of sun piercing through both cloud-towers and unrealized shores of mist… And her voice - a radiance of hues inconceivable, never have I been blinded so by sound. She glode towards us, shadowed by an entourage of armigers, attendants - a fae with wings torn off. We received her blessing, and two carriages of aid: soldiers to defend against attackers, rations for the survivors, as well as her promise to personally come to the aid of our city.

Her whispered blessing echoes in my mind. Glinting, shards of light scattered by a mirror, a reflection in darkness, obscured. I fear to glimpse the image at its source.

Widdergrove, this delightful sunburst of a city - Jebet, I feel my soul drowning in bitter ash as I write of what befell it. We arrived in a ruin. Wreathed in smoke, stained with blood and suffering. We sloughed through the streets, haunted with helplessness. There was but little we could do - I felt myself a morbid angel as I drifted 'round, offering what help I could. I sorrow for those of my companions who had relations caught in the attack, and shrink with frigid shame that we had not done more earlier to prevent this calamity.

What else is there to say? Queen Faelfo is no more, fallen in defense of the city he had once saved already. Corpses line the cobbles, arms and eyes pointing down unworldly paths. A roiling cloud of pain has domed our sky, faces veiled with tears, thought leadened.

Jebet, I fear this plague of loathing has only just begun - I beg you, do not rest before every soul in Riverridge has grasped what precipice of ruin the world edges. Prepare, and do not let the hatred fray your spirit.

In cities, discord, in unity, mutiny, in palaces, ruin, and the bond cracked between son and father.

Truly, we have seen the best of our time.

Your friend,

Arkadius Lumiel Chrome