Deer miss Emilee,
happy Burthday! we want You too come too our Burthday Partie! We eevin made You a Kake!
lov, weimi, Cogan, and linda

Emily Wizen had met these three youths while she was in a small kobold village south of Two River a few months ago. It was one of Emily's diplomatic duties to negotiate trade routes in the region; once a year she and a small entourage of warriors would make the short journey and meet with the loosely-knit circle of leaders of the small trade station, reinforcing the routes in an ironclad alliance of goods between Two River and Tinto.

Invitations like this were not uncommon. The people of the small, successful outpost often times invited Ridley and his wife to dinners, parties, celebrations of all sorts; invitations that were most likely (and always regrettably) declined. General Wizen was too busy a man to deal with such nonsensical banter; his militaristic outlook on life too easily overran every aspect of his existance. Emily, on the other hand, was free to do as she chose. Few were the occasions that she decided to attend the crude and sometimes backwards festivals of the traders without her husband's accompanyment, but it was not unheard of for her to make the trip by herself.

The abandoned Lady Wizen set the letter aside. Her eyes were too misty to make the letters out anymore. She sat against the oaken head of her cold, empty bed and hugged her legs. She made a silent promise to herself- she would not cry anymore about her husband's frequent absences.

She silently turned her head and, through the fog of the tears welling up at the base of her eyes, saw the thrice-accursed Desmond vigorously attacking a piece of white parchment with his ink and quill. What was he writing? That damned biography? Something pertaining to the mysteries of the Silver Moon? Or just another meaningless sonnet, poetry which, at best, paled in comparison to her own son's beautiful compositions. Emily quietly wished Desmond had stayed with his previous master Genshu, travelling the land in search of whatever bounty it is that samurais seek. Better Genshu plagued with the infinite ideals and foresights of the accursed collector of stories than her burdened husband.

But it wasn't Desmond's fault- not entirely. Damn Highland. Damn them for starting another war, for dragging her husband to the brink of paranoia. Damn Blue Lightning and his hideous man-bear. Damn them for appealing to that paranoia, nurturing it and giving it a new life. Damn that bitch Highbranch. Damn her for taking her husband away from him, onto some mission to Greenhill. Damn Greenhill. Damn Teresa. Damn all the barriers between her and her beloved Ridley.

A part of Emily saw a different, more horrible truth. A truth which struck her as awkward and vile, something that she faced only in nightmarish introspection. These thoughts had been compounding for some time, becoming slowly more coherent, slowly less admissable, to the point where they burst through all at once.

The fantasy: the world was keeping Emily from her beloved, its evil, spawning tentacales of responsiblity was wrenching him from her grip. Its icy voice was soothing im away from their vows, towards the battlefield, towards bloodshed and bared swords. Shenu was his wife in this terrible world of war, and Shenu was his only guiding light. As a man of the military and leader of the soldiers of Two River, it was an unavoidable factor of life.

The reality: Ridly was purposely avoiding his wife... after all, he had good reason. She was a terrible cook, an uninteresting conversationalist, an awful mother and, if the truth be known, a second-rate lover. She had failed to please her husband in any way practically since marraige... failed to rescue her poor, only child from the wartorn life he so loathed. It was no wonder Ridley was abandoning her so coldly.

She deserved it.

"Would my lady like some privacy?" Desmond's soothing voice pierced the stillness of the room. Emily felt her broken promise tickling the fur on her upper lip as she responded, "Yes, please..."

She watched in silent awe as Desmond packed up his meager belongings and left for his own quarters. He had only stayed to console her. He understood her unease- and felt simply awful for advising Ridley's immediate departure from Two River. But she silently tried to justify it- had he not left in a rush he would have missed his opportunity at an alliance with Greenhill.

Sleep devoured Emily on these thoughts, her balsphemous tears soaking her pillow. The cold, empty expanse of bed next to her longed for an occupant, but what competition could a soft, nurturing touch and a comforting whisper muster when compared to the calling of the world, the eager bloodlust of a thousand men?

"Sir Desmond, woof! A word from Lady Wizen- she summons you, woof!"

"Ah, the calling of the mistress... an early morning conversation, perhaps... yes, my good soldier, inform our good Lady that I shall be at her service shortly, as soon as I am properly attired."

It was unusually cold this morning- that is, compared to the warmth of Desmond's small yet comfortable bed. Most men would scowl under their breath when their master summoned them half-way through a night's sleep. The sun had not even spilled above the horizon, and already a call to duty... but Desmond drank in every second of it. He loved Emily, enjoyed being with her and savoring each moment of their company. Ridley was interesting enough for his tastes, but Emily was always so full of joy, touching his more poetic side with stimulating conversation.

Each second is the beginning of a new story, after all.

Pre-dusk journeys through Two River meant the soft, dewy touch of the grass beneath one's toes and the vast milky sky vaulting above one's head. The maze of small huts and cottages seemed small and silent this time of morning. The birds had just begun their song, heralds to the soon-emerging sun, each note touching Desmond's ear like an angel's wing. Few were the moments of peace amidst the raging war, and therefore those moments were meant to be cherished.

When Desmond arrived as his lady's quarters, she was already dressed in a soft white leather tunic, sitting on her bed with each forepaw folded into her lap. "Desmond," she said matter-of-factly, "I've decided to attend the childrens' birthday party at the southern trading post. I feel it will do me good to breathe the air outside of Two River."

"As do I, my lady. But would it not be wise to first await your husband's return, as it should not be far off now. Perhaps he can even be convinced to accompany you?"

Lady Wizen shook her head, sadly and somewhat defiantly. "No, Desmond. You are to accompany me. I have left word of our journey, so Ridley will not be far behind should he choose to follow."

Should he choose to follow... the pathetic wishes of a love-starved woman...

"I understand, my lady. It is my duty to follow orders... but should not Ridley need my assistance upon his return? Surely he will want me to prepare word to the eastern fortress that reinforcements may soon be arriving."

Again, the sad and defiant gesture. "My husband is quite capable of putting pen to paper, Desmond. It will be good for you, as well, a man who no doubt cherishes the blossoming life outside of this war-torn realm."

Desmond sighed. "I see. Then it shall be so, my lady. I shall prepare our departure immediately."

It is illegal in many of the civilized regions of Jowston to carry a stiletto, punishable by imprisonment even to comission a blacksmith to forge one (not to mention the hapless blacksmith who is caught taking such a job). For the less learned in the arts of weaponry, a description: a stiletto is a blade, infinitely sharp and terribly thin. It is made of an almost unbreakable steel, standing to the quality of even the most brilliantly forged Harmonian katana. The blade rarely measures over four inches, the hilt rarely over three. It is easily concealed in clothing, even when sheathed, even in the tightest of attire. Evil men are known to hide a stiletto even in the breakaway hilt of a larger sword, or in the secret panel of a sheath. Honorable men never carry one- it is blasphemous to wield the accursed weapon into battle. To stab a man with a stiletto is akin to murdering him in his sleep.

Of course, to an assassin no honor need be taken into account when the target comes into view.

This man named Stiletto stood nearly six feet in height and had black hair nearly as long. He covered himself neck to toe in black gear, enhanced by dark runic powers to enhance his mobility and to cover him in shadows. He wore a colorless cloak- invisible to the eye unaided by magic, which hid him from view of even the most observant of foes. The wind itself even seemed to overlook this man, named Stiletto, as he sat perched in a small tree along the path to Two River.

The two figures walked the path in the distance, perfectly nabbing the bait laid out for them. Foolish kobolds. The only race alive who would fall prey to such a blatant and obviously forged letter. He would be richly rewarded for this- his superiors would have no choice but to acknowledge his abilities.

The sun shone on the assassin's prey- conversing about poetry and prose, the things loved by both- as they walked down the beaten trail.

The sky split to a noise not unlike a pickax on stone, instantly followed by a banshee's wail from Emily Wizen's lips. She flew backwards, an unseen demon knocking her completely off her feet. Fallen, she wailed and clutched her left hand to her right shoulder, gasping for air and pleading for release from pain. Desmond, collector of stories, saw a piece of bloodied, mutilated flesh seething on the ground behind his lady, as if some deranged animal had torn the meat from her bone and spat it out, revolted at its taste.

"Lady Wizen!" he cried, trying to ragain composure. "Please, my lady, move your hand and let me survey the wound..."

Desmond looked at the gaping red hole in Emily's shoulder, the crimson fuel of life spewing onto her ivory tunic. Attempts to stifle her maddening wails of pain were met with ill-fated failure- the burning agony was too much for the ailing kobold woman to bear. With great effort, Desmond was able to lift Emily's shoulder enough to view a similar wound on her back.

Two steps away from the fallen diplomat was the ball of flesh, which Desmond promptly examined. "Dear God..." he breathed, terror magnified beyond his previous comprehensions, "It's metal..."

Another deafening clash of sound erupted from the distances, followed by the sickening sound of tearing flesh. Desmond was not alloted a cry as another unseen force pummeled a gaping wound into the back of his head, sending a wave of blood and scorched fur onto the ground in front of him. His vision blurred and the sound melted from his world, but nonetheless it is a tribute to the iron will of the faithful servant that his conciousness remained. He tried to utter Emily's name, but instead belched forth a mouthful of bile and blood; sick fate denied him a word.

Emily slowly regained her footing, horrified at the broken body of her companion, whom she could only assume was dead. She was far too panicked to notice the slight (yet present) rise and fall of his chest. She clutched her shoulder once more, her hand slick with blood, her snowy tunic forever stained. She screamed with the ferocity of a lioness, "Who the hell is out there!?"

"Destiny," was the answer; a voice best described as grey. It had no tone, no pitch, no real sound to it. It was as if the word was personified and blinked directly into being, needing no mouth to convey its existance.

A slight wind picked up the colorless cloak of the man called Stiletto, releasing him from the screen of invisibility and showing his emotionless countenance. He held a black rifle (a weapon of which Emily was not learned, but of which the readers are no doubt familiar with, especially if they are enlightened on the activities of the secretive Howling Voice Guild) to his side, which he dropped to the grassy plain.

Instead, the assassin drew his katana, a blade of scorched metal housed on his back, and held it at length to his victim. "Do you know the difference between destiny and fate, Lady Wizen?" he said, without much passion. He took a step forward. "Destiny is a man-made invention, devised to trick people into thinking that they have a place in this universe, taught by dogmatic cults to con people into paying pennance. Destiny is not worth believing in, Lady Wizen."

He stepped forth again. Emily tried to back off, her face now stained with tears, her mind nearly blanking out from the horrid pain. As she did so, her footing betrayed her and sent her sprawling to the ground, hopeless crawling away from her assailant. The insane interrogation continued: "Fate is something different entirely. Fate is Entropy, the end of all. One cannot change Fate, my lady." He lunged forward, his black fang crossing through Emily's exposed right hip. She watched in horror as the gash opened, spitting precious blood across the ground. The sight of this was simply too much for the poor diplomat; as she was faint of heart her psyche allowed her no concious recollection of the events to follow.

The assassin, called Stiletto, wasted no time. He quickly bound Lady Wizen's wrists and ankles with a thin cord which bit into her flesh, and flung her lifeless body over onto his shoulder.

Desmond was still breathing, a sign which the assassin took note of. With his free hand he drew his knife, a knife bearing the same name as he, and plunged it deep into the ground through the collector of stories' right paw. The digits shot straight out at the initial contact, but fell limp soon after the knife was buried to its hilt, nerve endings severed, the blood flow pinched off by the sheer force of the metal as Stiletto twisted it into the ground.

Desmond heard, before the world became black to all his senses, this final remark as the cloaked devil melted into the countryside: "Tell your master I'm coming for him.

"And you might as well tell Ridley, too."

A soldier lumbered into Ridley's quarters as he happened upon a crudely written birthday invitation. "Master Ridley, I have been informed to tell you that my lady Emily and Master Desmond have departed for the southern trade post. They should be returning within a few days."