Dearest Brother,

The rains came late this season, and the Shinn Plains have cracked like an old plate left too long in the sun. Still, I keep planting, for even poor soil will answer to patient hands. The neighbors mutter that the ground grows tired of us, that the cycles grind even the earth down, but I choose to trust that Solunus still grants us life through its stubborn roots.

Two Slimus drifted past our field yesterday. They looked weary, their little forms swaying as though carrying burdens we cannot see. Folk here treat them kindly, for the Guild says they are signs that mana still blesses this land, even when the Lance stirs with shadow. I offered them bread, and though they said little, their eyes carried a calm that words could not.

I confess I sometimes envy them. Their soft speech seems closer to truth than the chants of priests or the promises of kings. Perhaps they know something of balance we have forgotten.

Your sister,
Hennel