To Mayor Eswin Ealfhelm
I hope you are faring well after your arrival in Whitestone. Don't be fooled by the dust and the heat. Apotyre can be quite beautiful, especially in the evenings when the stars show their faces, peeking from behind the smoke of Adessa's fires. You won't find a better view of the heavens anywhere.
My sister Cenda suggested that I write to you on behalf of your family, the Grastars. We are a clan of proud, simple people, miners by trade, originating from the western land of Myria where our family supported Almere in his unification of the Almain tribes. It has always been our way to fight for what we believe, and to labor hard for the roof above our head, the clothes that keep us warm, and the meals that fill our bellies. It is not our way to take our blessings for granted. But I can stay silent no longer.
My daughter Tine is dying. Mother says it's the water in the Snaketail, but the gnomes assured us that it was clean. Their scholars tested it time and again. Still my little girl coughs blood. It is terrible to hear, Mr. Ealfhelmn, a wet cough that shades the sun and turns the blood to ice. I can barely bear to hear it. Sometimes, when the night falls and the fits take my Tine, I slip outside to marvel at the stars, and to wish myself far away from this desert death. All of my life I've embraced the rolling dunes in Apotyre. Now I see only graves waiting to be dug.
You are the mayor of Whitestoine, the leader of our people here in Apotyre. Can you not demand that the gnomes take responsibility fpr the pain they've wrought upon us, their willing servants? They will not listen to us. They have ignored our pleas for aid. My father has even travelled to Adessa and confronted the Templars at the Basilica Gnostra, to no avail. They turned him away, claiming that the secrets of their people could not be shared. Of course the same secrets may be killing us.
Please, Mayor Eswin, if you have any compassion you will seek me out. Or better yet you go straight to the source of our agony, and get the truth from the scholars of Motus Mining Interests, those responsible for the disaster that has befallen us all. As the old Apotyre saying goes: "Our bones are stone, our hearts the sun; we may be born of the dark halls, but we rise into light."
Thank you for reading this and Mitharu bless you.
Your friend, Heste Grastar