Everyone pales in comparison to the Visaran women. And yet, we have not so easily forgotten the nation that bore us. We yet walk the Gold Road together, make accomplices of Bards in the Theatre, and drown the occasional sorrow in Barma's largely tolerable whiskey for nostalgia's sake. I cannot look at Djeir without remembering a life that began, and ended, in the Crown Jewel of the Dark.

Could I take my leave from the front lines or the war table of late longer than to quill quick correspondence (a bit romantic, don't you think?), I would visit the palace to speak with you in the flesh. Until then, ink will have to suffice.

Uccello remembers. Da'Varano remembers. Dead houses both, but the bones that birthed Visara are yet buried beneath the himari in the good, Undercity soil. Call to me, and dead or no, I will yet stand beside you to bleed for it.

This, and one better. Have your Master of the Theatre send me one of his, if it please you. Not his best. Not his most brilliant. Send me the one who hungers the most despite their failures. The one with the most to lose with the fall of the Undercity, and thereby the most to prove.

Send them, and I will give them an eternity in which to hone their craft in service to the Amethyst Throne, every dusk a bloody encore. My gift to you, and to them.

You may expect a messenger with the Tyrant's regards forthcoming.

Paxe Visara
Thronekeeper of Bones

Penned by my hand on Kinsday, the 24th of Haernos, in the year 2 AC.