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♫♪♫ - ᚠᚱᛟᛗ ᚨ ᚲᛟᛗᛗᛟᚾᛖᚱ - - ᛏᛟ ᚨ ᚲᛁᚾᚷ - A dwarf sets himself in the local tavern, placing an old and stained note that was to be stained once more by the mess of the table. His hands fiddled with an old pot completed with fresh ink, and a feathery quill which was recently plucked from a sleeping raven atop an old pine tree. The son of Urguan with the quill and his essence of writing, began to form a letter which was to be forwarded to the King of Norland, hoping to release himself from the boredom that the tension of nations have caused. A LETTER TO THE KING OF NORLAND Dearest Balon Eiriksson Ruric, and whoever it may concern, Excuse the peculiarity with which I write to you this very second. My name is Thráin son of a dwed with no name who recently gained the clan title of Frostbeard. The recent tensions have fueled my curiosity, and like a mad alchemist, I seek nothing more than to use this fuel to its absolute. It is why I propose the great delight of keeping you company for a half hour or more, drinking the coldest mead or the warmest tea. I am quite unsure which you prefer, for our beards, assuming you have one, have never met each other's comfort. I would rather we meet in person than call to eachother like two great birds singing across a vast open valley and make the echo of our voices do the work. Assuming they are legal in your kingdom, I will bring the finest of cactus, farmed from the southern sands where the Uruk’s sleep and together I expect us to light it ablaze until our lungs turn green and what's left turns to ash. You may choose the date, for you are the one who sits upon a throne. Sincerely, Thráin Frostbeard A simple miner and craftsmen of no titles and a father of no name.
