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TO CILLIAN QUINN OF CIRCHESTER

The missive arrives delivered by Spectrier, nightmarish hoofbeats announcing the arrival of BARNABY FINCH. The letter itself smells faintly of jasmine, a perfume that the woman who sent it had begun to favor when you last knew her in Hoenn. It is not the only thing that has changed about her, although her penmanship remains an immaculate, pristine thing to behold.[break][break]

What a dreary world we find ourselves in, old friend.[break][break]

You held no great fondness for Galar, I well suspect, although there is some joy buried in the recesses of unpleasant memory. May fate be kind enough to unearth it for you, for the days here are short and the nights are too long for my liking. They stretch endlessly, don't they? One after another. A meaningless procession of mediocrity.[break][break]

Frankly, I do not much care for Motostoke, much less Galar.[break][break]

The peasants have crowned two jesters as kings: Caleb Harcourt and Isaac Merlo. Pitiful. I have more power in my small finger than they possess combined. How fortunate that the role of monarch is a dull and thankless one, or else I might be tempted to seize it by force.[break][break]

Earning the love of a nation has never been my forte, alas. I hear you did far better than me in that regard? I confess, I am curious how you are taking this second life we have been handed, old friend.[break][break]

Which mask did you decide to wear, when the past finally melted away?[break][break]

I find mine has stayed stubbornly in place, unwilling to yield. Perhaps it's simply who I am now. I cannot imagine possessing the patience to listen to the inane prattle of the citizenry; I become more irritable by the day.[break][break]

But there are things to do, I suppose. Endless battles. Endless tasks. Endless repetition. Wo-chien is as restless as I, waiting for something to happen. I don't know what. But we are impatient for it, nonetheless.[break][break]

There are precious few creatures with ambition here, dear Cil. Save for me and Bee, I suppose. I do not know what I would do if I could not speak with him, for he is the only one who does not look upon me as if I have fallen from some great height. There is a rare kinship in monstrosity.[break][break]

But he is gone often, dark rider that he is, and I must content myself with playing with dolls in my dollhouse. They break so terribly easily, and they are so very dull, it is a wonder I find any pleasure in the endeavor at all.[break][break]

I implore you: write to me. Entertain me. This age is doomed to be a dull and boring one otherwise.[break][break]

Fondly,[break]
Elisabeth, the Witch of Motostoke[break][break]

PS: I suppose I should mention I got married. Not to worry, it didn't last long. Shame I couldn't invite you and Tempest Quinn to the funeral.

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