A sheepish looking young woman ambles up to Morty as he stands somewhere obvious in Bree.
“Ya Morty Mossfoot? Ye fit the description she gave me.” She hands him a folded letter sealed with a generic tab of wax. “My apologies I forgot to find ya sooner. Lady bid me give this t’ya.” Without waiting for a reply, she turns and slinks away, hands shoved into the pockets of her tight britches.
Dear Morty, Dear Mr. Mossfoot,
Dear Mr. Morty Mossfoot,
I would like to extend my sincerest thanks to you for escorting me through the Chetwood last night. I do hope I did not do anything to further embarrass myself, though I do not doubt that I have sullied our friendship by my foolish actions. I hope you forgive me for dragging you out there.
It seems I have caught a chill from my stupidity as I was informed by a woman named Laerlin that a night’s drinking should not cause a fever, though I did not realize I had one until Miss Teiblanc brought it up. (I know what you are going to say about Elves.) Did I have my cloak about me? I seem to have misplaced it. Luckily, Miss Laerlin was kind enough to offer her medicinal services and brewed me a strong tea. Miss Teiblanc was willing to cover the expense. I do not like living on charity, Morty. Though I learned Mr. Falros is not much better off than me. He mentioned being cleaned out when he was away for an extended period of time. Can you imagine – fighting brigands all your life and then coming home to find you are a victim of them? It seems terribly unfair.
I cannot seem to write a letter that is not at least two pages long, so before I get off on another topic, I will sign and see if a roommate could take this to the post. I’m not sure I have it in me to take it myself.