[i]‘’Dear mother and father,

I know I haven’t written to you in some time. To be honest things have been slightly busy. I know I told you last time I had sent a letter to you that I would get back into the whaling business. Well, fate has taken me to a different direction. I am afraid I am now running with a mercenary company. Do not worry – I have taken my lessons from last time. Everything is going well. I am not part of a combat group anymore, and the pay is well. I believe I shall be able to finish paying back my debt to you in a few months.’’[/i]

Sadri paused as he read his handwriting. He had gone ahead and bought a room, at a price that he believed would be higher than a man’s, but he figured it was worth it. He had enjoyed his share of shitty places to sleep in the Reach and on the wagons back to Windhelm. At least Rorikstead was nice. Though he was still somewhat sour about not being able to relax and release his stress in the company of someone of fairer physique. He did not blame anybody – after all, at least to him, he looked like a dried fig, and no doubt his scars were somewhat too heavy to create the image of a battle hardened warrior. He was more like a botched up Necromancer thrall. And in Skyrim, where the women had warm bodies but demeanors colder than Atmora against anyone who wasn’t a Nord, Sadri couldn’t work his kavorka charm to score. And he was not going to admit defeat and go to a brothel.

Going back to his handwriting, he faced a financial situation. He was quite sure that his parents did not care about him paying back his debt. As far as he knew they were doing fine, at least, the sack of coin he kept sending weren’t actively helping their situation. But at least it allowed him to have a clear conscience. Though lying about how he was no longer part of a combat group still kind of muddled it. He remembered just how sorrowful the letter he had received from his parents had felt after informing them of his lost limb. Sadri would gain nothing by bragging about how he had felled a bear monstrosity with a single strike to them.

After taking a huff from his skooma pipe, Sadri went back to writing. 

[i]‘’These lands are in troubled times, I am afraid. As far as I understand, there is trouble with the Reachmen, and the company I am aligned to recently led an attack on one of their strongholds. It has been a costly endeavor. Many of the attackers were killed, although in the end we managed to take the redoubt from them. I have a feeling that the chain of command likes me. Maybe I will get a promotion. I will make sure to let you know if I do.’’[/i]

Sadri put down the quill for a second and poured himself some flin. After downing the cup and feeling the burning liquid light up his insides, he was renewed with vigor. And the nagging feel in his right eye had somewhat subsided. There was no need to disturb Mora.

[i]‘’There is not much more to tell you, really. I wish to make a visit sometime. I have missed mother’s stuffed pigeon. Speaking of stuffed pigeon, how is Bergama? How is Najad doing? Has he passed away yet? Please inform me if he does.[/i]

[right][i]-Love, Sadri’’[/i][/right]

Najad was a childhood friend of Sadri, a Redguard with a penchant for climbing. It was thanks to his parents that Sadri was able to score a job in the Library of Bergama. Thanks to the human condition, he was now an elderly man, apparently suffering from chronic inflammation of the joints. Whereas Sadri was pretty much the same as he was 40 years ago, though his skin had weathered a bit and he had earned a lot of scar tissue. And of course, there was always the matter of his arm and his ear. But it was a lot better than being a bed-ridden man barely able to speak, let alone walk.

He did not have much else to write. Sadri put down the quill again, for good this time, and stuffed the letter in an envelope and sealed it with a drop of liquefied candle. After tucking the letter alongside his books, he left his room and, after locking it behind him, went for the Hall. He figured he could have a drink alongside his comrades and comrades-to-be, maybe flirt with the fellow Dunmer bard, or maybe that nanny. What was her name? Idesa? He wasn’t sure, but Sadri sure hoped he would find out.