But it was not as though Desmond had to be ordered to carry out Ridley's bidding. Powerful men fascinated Desmond. He loved to observe them, to listen to them, to hear their stories and ambitions. It is said that a great artist can savor every contour in the face of a mountain, or each fine hue in a beautiful summer sunset. Such was the case with Desmond. He was an artist, his subject the great and powerful men of the world, his art consisted of the stories he collected, recorded, and compiled.

"It is to my son at his training site in the nameless countries. I wish to inform him about the happenings here in Jowston."

"Then it shall be so, my honorable general," said Desmond, laying a piece of parchment across Ridley's broad desk and donning a feather quill. Ridley began to pace back and forth, scratching his chin as he talked. Deep in thought, as always... Desmond rolled the thought around in his mind. What kind of great thoughts are in that unbreakable mind?

"Date it. Then begin."

"I am ready, Lord Ridley."

Ridley cleared his throat and began the dictation with a booming, thunderous voice: "My son Boris. It has come to my attention that the country of Highland wishes war with the good people of Jowston. I regret to inform you that the leaders of each state stand motionless at the tides of this great war. Within a fortnight I expect the front to be here at the walls of Two River. If you are to receive word that I have fallen in battle, you are to return to your home immediately and resume command of my troops- the Wizen name is something these warriors cannot fight without. Stay well."

Ridley paused. "Does that sound well, my friend?"

"Forgive me, sir. The content of the message is well devised, but it certainly has a more serious bent to it than your son is likely to relate to. He is a lover of fine poetry, is he not?"

"Yes, more so than swordsmanship I am afraid."

"Allow me to read back the slight alterations I have made, my lord." The collector of stories cleared his throat, and read from the parchment what he had written: "My dearest son. I regret to inform you that our fine land of Jowston is on the brink of war with its most uncooperative neighbor Highland. The peace treaty our fine leaders signed was shattered by the fist of Highland's prince at the woeful expense of a small brigade of Highland youngsters. As the inevitable armies slowly approach our front, it has become apparent that the masters and mistresses of our surrounding states are standing idle in the face of battle. I therefore don my blade with a heavy heart. In the most unfortunate instance I do not survive the upcoming battle, and you thus receive a letter of condolences from my trusted advisor Desmond, it would be wisest for you to abandon your training and return to Two River, where doubtless that the name Wizen will lead them fiercely into the fray. Stay well, dearest Boris."

Ridley grunted, the edges of his lips curling into an enigmatic smirk; it was the closest thing to snickering the great swordsman was likely to do. "I cannot help but notice, my trusted advisor, that you managed to sneak in a promotion for yourself into the letter."

"Truly, I am sorry for misunderstanding, my lord. I will strike that line from the document."

"No; leave it. It may become truth soon enough."

Ridley walked over to the desk and with a heavy sigh dipped the feather quill into Desmond's inkwell. "If only reality were not so cold, my friend..." He signed his name to the parchment.

The letter was rolled neatly and tied with a piece of red string. As Ridley melted a bit of wax in order to seal the letter from prying eyes, the upcoming battle gnawed at his soul. If only it could be avoided, if only he weren't tied down to Two River, if only if only if only if only...

The general pressed his signet ring against the melted wax of the candle and thus sealed the letter with the Wizen family symbol- a curious looking sword with a hilt which resembled the branches of a tree. It's meaning was simple- the kobolds were willing to fight (as depicted by the blade) and die (as shown by the red wax) for their way of life (as shown by the tree branches). And in the upcoming times, they would have to do exactly that.

"It shall be sent at first light, my lord," said Desmond, sliding the rolled parchment into a scroll case. "A party of four messengers shall be dispatched for the successful delivery; is that to your acceptance, my lord?"

Ridley nodded. "Let it be so, my friend."

Desmond was about to slip out of the tent of the kobold brigade's commanding officer into the moonlight, but was stopped by a last minute inquiry from his master. "Desmond, are there any plans on behalf of the people of Muse or South Window to fortify the region bordering Highland?"

"To be truthful, sir, I do not know. Action in that direction will most likely be taken, as Highland has started showing aggression towards some of the small border villages."

"I see. Please retrieve that information for me."

"Yes, sir."

Ridley sat in his chair, resting his head on one broad, brown forepaw, tapping the other diligently on the rough wood. He stared into blank space, thousands of possible battle strategies fighting for position in his taxed brain.