The note hisses, crumples in the fire. Breathe deep, fortunate man.
And what fortune comes to me; exultation rising, uncurling deep in my belly. I am a boy again, I need to steady my hands to write, shivering in anticipation. I am chosen. I had heard it had been taken. But that it is given to me ... I am exaulted, raised ... its is known there is no other like me.
Any fool can use a sword to kill, any fat-handed bludgeoner can command a troop of orcs or half-men. I am no street-skulker, I abhore lackluster brigands. I have no respect for dull witted captains whose only true value is their ability to terrorise the bleating sheep that pass for men here. I have the prize, handed to me. And how it will sing, under my hands.
I must move north immediately to take possession of my reward. Prepare my own dark rooms for it in the high towers. I will rise even higher for this, I see ... I see ... their pale pleading faces, knowing who I am and what I have done. I see myself - Azrudaur, the gloom of the deep ocean - break like a stormwave over them, drowning their beauty, the favour and the magnificence of my lord in my hands.
