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[!] A young dwarven lad would be seen in the city delivering a letter to Urguan, written in spindly handwriting. It read, To my dear friends in Urguan: Hello! It feels like quite a while. This letter is to my dearest friends in the dwarven realm, where I can never show my face again. My messenger here's named Sigurd, my cousin's son. Nice lad; helps around the house. The Family has gladly taken me in, let me stay with them for a while, at the least. I suppose I should get to the point, huh? I believe I'm dying. I find myself relying on my father's cane quite a bit, my leafage is browning. Even as I write this letter, I can't stop my hand from shaking. Perhaps it's the repercussions of Mao's transformation. If so, I probably deserve whatever it is. Perhaps it is the supposed reincarnation or rebirth... whatever it's called. I don't know if it requires being below that Gods-forsaken tree. If so, it can stay as far away from me as possible. If not, perhaps we'll meet again, in some fashion. Either way, this will be farewell. I give my well wishes and hope this bloody war can be over soon. Maybe then, I'll have some form of peace. With love, Bori Orckin. The rest of the paper was left with some stained ink and general wet spots.
