Thordralin sifts through the contents of his fathers' belongings. He seems alive even now, in all these objects left behind. It's a sad and gruelling task, but the Uzbad does not complain; the slow digestion of memories is just one part of the mourning process. Placed tactfully at the bottom of one wooden box is a carefully preserved letter. A letter from Thordralin, back in his caravan guarding days. Or rather, at the end of them...
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Thordralin
