A letter arrives, bearing a golden wax seal depicting a half-sun - with a slight bulge among the wrapping. The Ranger Lord may, or may not recognize the sigil as that of Whitedawn. It has been a
long time,
after all - and she didn’t brandish as much too often in the past.
Should he open it, the handwriting is far more composed than the young
woman he’d remember ever seemed to be; that, and a small, wooden rabbit
rolls out - one of a pair he’d carved with his own hands - now well-worn
by another’s hands. It is, perhaps, more of a message than any of her
written words can convey - he’s never left her thoughts.
Drifter,
I
cannot begin to count the years since you graced my path; since you -
and Gideon - stood beside me in a...