[Recovered from the body of a dead man dumped on the Prelatorian Highway near the Shunai Bridge, the contents of this letter have become common knowledge through the efforts of tavern gossips and seedy information brokers alike.]

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Lo-da'i, sister. It has been too long. I beg forgiveness for my delay in this latest report. A distinctly unpleasant feeling of being watched has plagued me of late, but I have now heard many others in this city have felt such. I do not think they suspect me. I am safe for now.

After much reflection, I admit I am not entirely sure what I expected when I signed up to be a watcher beyond the woods. Back then we had so many warriors overgrowing the lands, and I wanted to strike deeper. It was too much to pass up, imagining myself poisoning the chalice at Black Mass or blotting out key parts of ritual instruction books. So I was overjoyed to receive the assignment to rise out of slavehood, earn a post in the Ambassador's office, and report his activities.

But this experience has been as sad and wasteful as a good seed washed out to sea, never to take root in the wilds. Mhaldor has precisely zero diplomatic relations of note with other city-states. One time I did overhear in the office that the Ambassador inquired with Cyrenians about personally joining this Coalition. It was hard to discern over the sound of a woman screaming while falling off the Spire, but I think I got most of it.

There was some implausible cover story about wanting to stage a theatrical production with a Virtuosi troupe in exchange. Presumably he actually wanted to keep an eye on the Coalition's plans, or at least sow division among its current members about working with the West. Thankfully it does not take much wisdom to deny such a patently stupid request. Though I confess my own doubts about the wisdom of our people fighting alongside city-dwellers, as it seems to go against what the Earthmother wanted, that is not a matter for me to decide.

Mhaldor's relations with its occupied territories are not much to speak of either. Most who live under their rule utterly despise them. The Westerners have done little to investigate how to ingratiate themselves with locals. There is a single rather grumpy dwarf they call Ambassador who lives in the Spire near the office, but he is basically ignored. Oddly, in the chamber across the hall there is another room. Despite being decorated ornately with murals of what look like overgrown lizards, it is unfurnished and evidently unused.

The one thing the territories are good for is bringing in massive carts of tribute. Every day, a steady stream of orc or mhun laborers lugs in stone, coal, iron and other spoils their mining operations have plundered from our beloved, mistreated Nature. I cannot stand it! I do not know if they are building anything with the stockpile, but many more of the Lord Marshal's aides than I would expect are doing "security patrols" in the sewers lately. Aren't all the tunnels to Moghedu and elsewhere collapsed or sealed already? Anyway, I don't have the appropriate clearance to check it out myself, and truth be told, it is probably not worth a run-in with some of the more unpleasant inhabitants down there...

Oh! In a more ominous development, an emissary of the horrific undead plaguing Azdun showed up at the gates after those monsters breached their confinement in the Underworld. It is heinous enough that these Mhaldorian traitors to Life itself did not cut them down where they stood, but imagine when I tell you that the emissary came speaking of a proposal and they negotia

[The next half-paragraph is blotted out with the writer's blood and is entirely unreadable.]

And finally, the Ambassador himself is quite simply a religious lunatic. Devoid of any shred of wit or independent though, he merely parrots these long-ago scriptures probably written by younglings doing their own House assignments. He speaks in tongues, but no one else seems to speak the language so who knows what he is even saying. It may all be made up for the effect it seems to have had, as I haven't seen hide nor hair (do daemons have hair?) of any Infernal residents during my time here. He is by turns vindictive and snippy, egomaniacal and blathering, and I cannot wait for the moment I am no longer compelled to listen to him.

I have the rest of today off. Thankfully, the rules about constant labor are only applied selectively to slaves, a welcome bit of hypocrisy. I think I will make a short visit to my old grove in the Eastern Aureliana, near Silverlode falls. I must not linger too long lest I arouse suspicion, either from the fog-huffers or by our own people who do not know of my work. But I will take my boots off for but a moment, and feel the moss between my toes once more. It will root me to our purpose, connect me to you and all others who walk under the blessed trees. Until we meet again, sister.

Dreaming of better days for us and Her wilds,
The Lycopod with Eyes


Penned by my hand on the 19th of Mayan, in the year 921 AF.