((A neatly-creased half-sheet of thick parchment is tucked into the cloth of a long, thin parcel left to moulder for an indeterminate period of time in Barliman Butterbur's lumber-room. The lettering is dark and crisp, the hand strong and flowing.))
Narys.
It appears our paths resemble naught so much as two opposing river-banks: though we follow the same course, it is never our lot to be met. Again, I am away south, and I am sorry to have missed you.
While I was in the north, I chanced upon a small holding of goblins. With a few stout companions, we served to liberate a store of goods they had carried off from a nearby homestead. It was not so exciting as, say, a pair of angry trolls bursting through fire and flume, but all the same, I hoped you might be pleased by the fortune your gift of many months past granted me. It is enclosed here--none the worse for wear for its journey through a thick goblin hide--in the hopes that, should you happen upon dire straits of your own, it will fly to your deliverance just as it did mine.
I have given our mutual friend Butterbur instruction to pass this parcel into your keeping when next you happen by. My hope in the completion of this task is faint, and it may very well be that the next cold season is come ere you lay your eyes upon this, but if that is so, then so it will be.
Walk well, Narys, until we are again met.
Aeralhil
((Carefully wrapped in the cloth package is an arrow. Its bodkin point gleams darkly, and it has recently been re-fletched with feathers of black and red.))
