Troy

As many of you are aware, the city of Troy, blessed be its name, was burned to the ground but a few days ago. It was quick. Chaos creatures had invaded in the night, though none saw who set the buildings to blaze. A brave fellow, by the name of Arthur, found us and called for our aid to rescue survivors from the fires around them. Arthur, blessed be his name, returned with us to help, only to perish attempting to rescue one of ours.

We only had so much time. When we arrived, it was clear to everyone that the city itself could not be saved, only its people in a localized zone around the portal we took to get there. We had not even scratched the surface, only able to travel within a hundred foot radius. We could not reach any other part of the city due to the flames and debris.

Some people were lucky enough to make it out on their own. Most were not. The losses are immense.

The city of Troy was normal. Culturally, it had nothing grander or more significant than perhaps the Rosette Opera House, or the monument to St. Venidene the Still, patron of Oaths and Promise (“Promise” here, referring to “potential” rather than a redundancy.) It had no influential organizations headquartered there. It had no grand libraries of knowledge or places of power, only a bottle that the enemy deemed so important that it was worth burning a city for.

As the aforementioned vial was not guarded by anyone but a strange, mystic force, I see not why a smaller, more precise heist was not implemented to retrieve it. I see not why the Duke or the Chancellor would raze the city to the ground beyond inciting terror and mayhem. It kills me.

I grew up but a few miles outside of Troy, and would visit there every week. Though I have not been in several years, it feels as though a part of my life was just ripped from my chest. Seeing the once high buildings that, as a child, I once believed touched the sun now mingled with dirt has left an emptiness in me.

I’ll write more of its memory tomorrow, but I will be staying in Travance for the next few days to make sure the survivors have homes and steady feed. The number of refugees is piling up. If any of you know of houses that need filling and work that needs doing, please say so, either by posting here or by private missive. If you’ve been to Troy before, if you have any remnant of the place, be it a memory or memento, do say so here - it might put my heart at some small amount of ease.

Owen,

While Pendarvin is a bit of a trek, I will help where I can. At least from the Academy in Sagewood/Northern Albriar, we can work on swifter means of travel to places to stay as well.

Just send me a missive if you need anymore details.

-Ilana

(Delivered by raven)

I've made camp and have been extracting what few corpses I can. When you walk through Troy you walk on its children, as the wind has already scattered those whom were made fully ashen. Others fall to pieces in my hands, too fragile to pry from collapsed cottages and church stone. I keep finding them in the church.

Efforts will be made to identify the few who keep their features and return them to their next of kin. But fire is not kind and most of whom I've recovered are misshapen and look charcoal-wrought. I cannot tell man from woman, young from old. The unidentified will be laid to rest en masse in a public memorial, outside Troy's gates.

I have no soft words for you. It is ugly and silent here.

I can't offer help to the lost, or memorials to the fallen, but I can offer a bit of an explanation.

Enzarond and, especially in this case, Val'Ixtal Vai feed off of despair. The deeper the wound the more joy it brings them. This strike was purposeful in causing as much pain as possible, and done seemingly with no reason. Because that is exactly what they want.


I have never seen Val'Ixtal Vai, and only recently learned of its existence. But I've known Enzarond for five years. I have been chasing him for five years. And the image of his face becoming increasingly satisfied as more and more despair grows in the hearts of the innocent and victims around him is something that has been burned into my mind. It will never leave. I've seen it every night: the sadistic glee, the rising joy, the focused smile as (there is a large section of crossed out illegible words) .


I cannot offer much except for a small explanation, and a promise:

THEY. WILL. PAY.

I promise the last thing Enzarond sees will be me plunging my sword through his heart.

And now, I'm sure, Val'Ixtal Vai will fall by your hand.

Owen,

If not too far, the mission houses of the Church of Light in Pendarvin, Ostcliff, Kaladonia, and Dregamire have facilities for refugees: sleeping space, food, some coin for help in reestablishing homes. An entire city might press us, but we are more than willing to take on whatever we can to help those in distress.

Yours in the Light,

Admiral Piper,

The dragons claw inn extends its arms to any and all seeking a warm hearth and a hearty meal. Just as we took in those from Grimyr, we shall too shelter and feed our allies from Troy.

On my honor,