Deorda

A rolled length of neat parchment, clearly expensive paper, denoting some form of wealth. Sealed only by a tied ribbon of crimson, the knot held down by a stamp of black wax. A coiled snake contained within the void-like circular impregnation. Upon unfurling the document, it would read:
 

Dearest Deorda,

This page is written in clean-cut, simple script, in a plain leather-bound journal with the words "Sefton Heathridge" written in precise letters on the inside cover.

Nothing quite like the kick of whiskey, eh? Nothing quite comes as close anymore, ‘less I have a blade in my hands. Perhaps the kick of life, but, recently I've found myself less 'kicked' and more stampeded upon by horde of, let's say less than pleased, oliphaunts. But, I digress, I can't say things haven't been interesting lately.

"When you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves."

My mother always said.

It was never come to my mind what would it mean till now.