Drastic Measures...

[IAmDeathComeForThee]

~Prelude~

*A thin, seemingly frail hand, one wrought out of the the corruptive chaos of loss and change that is time, ferociously fights back against it's adversary in a race to beat it's ruthless inevitable victory over all that is living. From it, the long, hollow feather of a raven jerks back and forth in the cool stale air of the surrounding darkness, a black sheen flickers up and down along the sickly glossy-like feather in it's dance with the candlelight. Naught but the sound of the wretched scratching pierces the silence of the small stone room as the stabbing and scourging of the feather bleeds black into it's prey. The parchment endures it's torment in this manner for some time until the assault suddenly comes to as violent an ending as it's initial onslaught.

The letter is hastily gathered into a tightened roll as bony fingers work with impressive speed tying a knot into the hemp-string tightly wrapped around the parchment. A silver spoon breaks off a chunk of hardened wax from a small block which is then dipped into a bowl of dark, reddish liquid, still containing the wax it is then brought and held over the candle flame. Once a sufficient pool of wax and it's crimson counterpart have formed over the seam, an imprint is made into the marbled mixture of a gauntlet clenched tightly into a hardened fist. A strong magic is infused into the seal as the imprint form the ring makes it's mark, ensuring a fate most undesirable is left for those unfortunate enough to break it, should they not be it's appointed recipient. A foul stream of air glides across the cooling wax as withered lips hiding whatever rotting teeth are still yet left, purse into a wrinkled mess as they blow to harden the wax.

The old figure of man, dressed in his customary long black robes swiftly exits from his creaky wooden chair and heads to his door, grabbing his most favored of enchanted staffs along the way.

A young agent, anxiously awaiting outside the room for the bidding of his Lord gives a startled jump as the sudden unlatching of the bolted door echoes through the long candle lit hall. Startled yet again by the haste of the one whirling open the door and exiting the chambers, he is uncertain how to greet the Lord or offer his service, as is protocol, as the figure flies past clearly not even acknowledging his presence...*

Ah, m-m-Lord...
*he clears his throat as if realizing how foolish he sounds*
Is there somethi-

NO! *The figure hisses over his shoulder not losing stride as he makes his way out of the corridor, slamming the heavy wooden door behind on his leave.

The sudden quiet left to the young man gives him pause for uncertainty as he ponders as to what just happened. Letting off a slight frown he steps back to his post beside the door and hopes he is later not reprimanded for not following proper protical.*

[IAmDeathComeForThee]

*A hint of a rumor seems to filter through the usual social mongers in the taverns and the contemptuous gossip thriving upper class of the Palace District. Some seemingly innocent stirrings to the east are to lay blame for the causing commotion apparent within Dutchal Palace and Nobility of Baldur's Gate. Few ears are as privileged as those who may have heard the bits and pieces to the specifics, but it is clear to most that whatever the exact details may be, it has caused a certain stir among the nobility and upper ranks of Baldurs Gate and surrounding land, and a certain urgency for things to be kept under wraps and tight lipped is all too prevalent. The general consensus among the tavern patrons seems to be an agreeable phrase to the tone of "Somethin aint right..."

From those curious enough to try and dig out from the slight commotion what they can, it is heard a certain caravan has been spotted in Cormyr and for one reason or another, has raised some form of alarm along the Coast. It is unclear the details as to where they have originated or where they in fact head, or why exactly there may be cause for such blatant secrecy over the matter. But, what can definitely be deduced from the overly curious is that something certainly seems heavily amiss over the issue. Guards who have on occasion become quite loose lipped over one too many draughts of ale only further fuel the mystery behind it all as they swear their commanders are seemingly more on edge over the past few days, and, have declared themselves under oath to not divulge any further information until they have orders to do so.

How one chooses to think and act over the rumor is to their own accord and possibly most, in all likelihood, would shrug it off and leave it to their Lords and Ladies after having heard all they can for themselves.

But... alas, it it can be said that there have also been ears fortunate enough themselves to have heard such things, ears perhaps those who may be trying to keep things under wraps are trying to avoid... *

//PMs being sent out to appropriate groups