My Dearest Darial,

I must tell you of a night unlike any other. I had stopped in a nameless tavern in Friar, thinking only of supper and a quiet corner. But fate had other designs.

At a long oak table sat seven figures: Bam Bam the thief, Albee with rings glimmering faintly at her hands, Emily the archer, Tina whose laughter carried like music, Jack with a sword leaned against his chair, Xty the mage whose every word sparkled with delight, and John the Bard, lute resting across his knees.

John saw me lingering near the fire and called out:
“Every story needs someone to write it down. Come, friend, sit with us.”

I meant only to drink, but one cup became two, and soon their voices drew me in. Emily spoke of training in the marsh, Jack of watching the mountains, Tina of gambling her last coin yet laughing all the same. Xty peppered everyone with questions and bursts of giggles, her mana sparks fluttering like fireflies above her hands.

By night’s end, they had spoken of shadows gathering at the Lance. I had not planned to join them. Yet when they rose, I rose too.

I think, Darial, that I have stepped into a tale greater than I understand.

Always yours,
Kyle