Naamit ~ Letter to Khlat Braggiani of Bourth (7th November)
As day leads to darkness, Naamit retreats from Ta'Illistim to her small estate. By candle light, she begins writing a letter at the desk in her parlor. She takes little time in thinking through the words as the ruminations were made along the way.
Dear Khlat Braggiani, I hope this letter finds you, where ever you may roam.
My name is Naamit and I have the whip. Whether you wish it back isn't the purpose of my outreach. You may not know me, but I am a Braggiani and like you, I can relish in its power. I seek a set of eyes and ears with intrigue like mine, and a pair of lips for persuasion. As a merchant, I'm certain these are qualities you possess. As your bloodkin, I am interested in your relations with the court in the County of Bourth and the Baron Spensor Caulfield.
This is of grave importance, for threat of elven meddling within the Turamzzyrian Empire, in the wake of the tragedy in Talador, seeps far and wide. Queen Myasara of the elven House Illistim seeks to transport by airship fleet, a bevy of stone, timber, healing supplies and healers, educative primers for children and the elven scholars to wield them. This seems innocuous on the face of it, but the elf-queen also plans to convene monarchs from the other Elven houses to create a unified front in the name of "aid." However, I've also come to learn that the Vaalor elves began amassing considerable arms and armor within the last few months. Something is afoot and it does not smell innocent.
I fear their approach is folly and will bring danger to the Empire. Thus, I suggest an alternative proposal, which would be greatly beneficial both to you as a merchant, your homeland, and to the Empire as a whole. If you are as seasoned merchant as I believe you to be, I urge you, along with any merchant networks and diplomats available, to broker a deal with the Baron Caulfield and his peers, whereby the Elven Nations provide monetary aid to the Empire for locally sourced goods, to be sent to Talador.
The House of Illistim was ready to pay a northern Giantkin clan in the north for stone, so certainly their coffers do not run dry. Should it be granted, the funding will bolster local production in the Empire and specifically, the prime wood and stone exports of Bourth would go a long way toward satisfying the needs Talador in due time. Increased local production throughout the Empire will provide jobs, and give hope to any of those who are lacking. Let every man and woman work toward embetterment of themselves and the Empire. Such an approach will avoid dissension and eliminate any risk of elven meddling, or worse: war.
I will be upfront in that do not trust an allied front of elves' sole intention is to serve the people of the Turamzzyrian Empire, even in such a time of need. Even as I write this letter, there are others composing their own missives undoubtedly to beg for complacency among their allies in Jantalar and Vornavis. I can only imagine those letters fail to mention the fleet of elven airships and bevy of weaponry and wizardry that could soon bear down on Human lands if local avenues are not employed.
As bloodkin, I hope you will see fit to assist me in this. If you wish to meet me to resolve any doubt of what I've said, I shall travel to whatever place is your desire. Alternately, I welcome you as guest and kin at my small estate in Ta'Illistim, where you shall find the accommodations most enjoyable.
Signed in our blood,
P.S. Did you visit the House of Dzosch in Krestle in your youth? My mother, Monica worked there, but she was a Giantkin and not a Braggiani like you and me. Indeed, there are many questions I have for you, if and when the time comes.
Naamit selects a slender flechette from a small display on the top of her desk. She quickly slices her wrist and lets several drops of blood pool into an empty dish next to her inkwell. She picks up a fresh quill and signs her name to the letter:
Naamit Dzosch Monica Durden Braggiani
After her wound has puckered to the point of coagulation, she folds the letter with crisp precision and seals the paper with sanguine wax, and firmly presses it with a signet bearing a tiny chain link whip with cross-like handle. Naamit heads back to her drawing room, where she finds her seasoned tracker swaggering down the stairwell, complete with a satisfied smile plastered across his lips. She hands him the letter, smoothly quips "it's on the house," and shows him to the door.