Within the deep snows of the north, the decrepit hand of Martin of Akatosh grabs the imported Hyspian Cigars that were smuggled during the conflicts of the diasporas that plagued their people. A simple butler comes over and fluffs the pillow that rests upon his feet, outstretched across his lounge of Cathant Silk. A gesture of the hand follows the butler's action from the aging man, his wig falling lopsided upon his head as he chortles at the missive.
"For the plague of the Orcish kind is quelled by the Warriors beneath the Banner of High Prince Native? Such issues seem as likely as the slaying of multiple dragonkind upon a strange, fateful night."
The cigar is lit in his free hand, the scent of the spiced paper filling the area as he throws his head back. The euphoric scent allowing for him to fathom the absurdity of such a time. Neverless, he drew the decorated lambswool blanket upon his legs, gesturing to his butler to go to the kennels to secure them.
"We don't want our dogs been stolen for war, ensure they are locked up."