How many pleas? How many missives? How many insufferable nobles and pompous citizens did she endure within the four walls of her office…the ambassador wondered while writing the final lines of a long letter destined to reach the dwarven kingdom in a few weeks. Outside, the usual hubbub of the town could be heard. How happy they must be, she thought, blissfully unaware that war is brewing in the West; unaware that the lizardfolk embassy burned two weeks ago under strange circumstances; unaware that a group of would-be adventurers mixed-up “offer peace to the goblins’ guild” and “brutally slaughter their bodyguard service” two days ago. As she finished her day’s work and left her office, wandering the magnificent corridors lit by the afternoon’s glow, she continued to wonder. Will this weight on her shoulder ever feel lighter? Or is it doomed to get ever heavier the older she gets?

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